What I Have To Say Is Far

Loud O'er My Head Though Awful Thunders Roll, And Vivid Lightnings Flash From Pole To Pole, Yet 'tis Thy Voice, My God, That Bids Them Fly, Thy Arm Directs Those Lightnings Through The Sky. Then Let The Good Thy Mighty Name Revere, And Hardened Sinners Thy Just Vengeance Fear.

For Deadly Fear Can Time Outgo, And Blanch At Once The Hair.

Do Not Christians And Heathens, And Jews And Gentiles, And Poets And Philosophers, Unite In Allowing The Starry Influences?

Nothing Is More Completely The Child Of Art Than A Garden.

There Is A Vulgar Incredulity, Which In Historical Matters, As Well As In Those Of Religion, Finds It Easier To Doubt Than To Examine.