The blood will follow where the knife is driven, The flesh will quiver where the pincers tear.

The melancholy ghosts of dead renown, Whispering faint echoes of the world's applause.

A Christian is the highest style of man.

The bell strikes one. We take no note of time But from its loss.

Affliction is a good man's shining time.

However smothered under former negligence, or scattered through the dull, dark mass of common thoughts - let thy genius rise as the sun from chaos.

How poor, how rich, how abject, how august, how complicate, how wonderful is man! Distinguished link in being's endless chain! Midway from nothing to the Deity! Dim miniature of greatness absolute! An heir of glory! A frail child of dust! Helpless immortal! Insect infinite! A worm! A God!