A soul without reflection, like a pile Without inhabitant, to ruin runs.

The man who consecrates his hours by vigorous effort, and an honest aim, at once he draws the sting of life and Death; he walks with nature; and her paths are peace.

Where, where for shelter shall the guilty fly, When consternation turns the good man pale?

Affliction is the good man's shining scene; prosperity conceals his brightest ray; as night to stars, woe lustre gives to man.

Tomorrow is the day when idlers work, and fools reform and mortal men lay hold on heaven.

We cry for mercy to the next amusement, The next amusement mortgages our fields

The man who builds, and wants wherewith to pay, Provides a home from which to run away.