The artful injury, whose venomed dart scarce wounds the hearing, while it stabs the heart.

What ascends up in prayer descends to us again in blessings. It is like the rain which just now fell, and which had been drawn up from the ground in vapors to the clouds before it descended from them to the earth in that refreshing shower.

Glory darts her soul-pervading ray on thrones and cottages, regardless still of all the artificial nice distinctions vain human customs make.

The wretch who digs the mine for bread, or ploughs, that others may be fed, feels less fatigued than that decreed to him who cannot think or read.

There are only two bad things in this world, sin and bile.

When thou hast truly thanked the Lord for every blessing sent, But little time will then remain for murmur or lament.

In men this blunder still you find; all think their little set mankind.