There is a land of pure delight, Where saints immortal reign; Infinite day excludes the night, And pleasures banish pain.

Fancy and humour, early and constantly indulged in, may expect an old age overrun with follies.

What bliss will fill the ransomed souls, when they in glory dwell, to see the sinner as he rolls, in quenchless flames of hell.

Earth, thou great footstool of our God, who reigns on high; thou fruitful source of all our raiment, life, and food; our house, our parent, and our nurse.

No science is speedily learned by the noblest genius without tuition.

So, when a raging fever burns, We shift from side to side by turns; And 't is a poor relief we gain To change the place, but keep the pain.

There's not a plant or flower below but makes Thy glories known, And clouds arise, and tempests blow by order from Thy throne; While all that borrows life from Thee is ever in Thy care; And everywhere that we can be, Thou, God art present there.