The Work Under Our Labour Grows, Luxurious

Beauty Is God's Handwriting-a Wayside Sacrament.

Truth Is Compared In Scripture To A Streaming Fountain; If Her Waters Flow Not In Perpetual Progression, They Sicken Into A Muddy Pool Of Conformity And Tradition.

Abashed The Devil Stood And Felt How Awful Goodness Is And Saw Virtue In Her Shape How Lovely: And Pined His Loss

Our State Cannot Be Severed, We Are One, One Flesh; To Lose Thee Were To Lose Myself.

Sweet Is The Breath Of Morn, Her Rising Sweet, With Charm Of Earliest Birds.