Ah! happy is the man whose early lot Hath made him master of a furnish'd cot; Who trains the vine that round his window grows, And after setting sun his garden hoes; Whose wattled pails his own enclosure shield, Who toils not daily in another's field.

A good man's prayers will from the deepest dungeon climb heaven's height, and bring a blessing down.

If my heart were not light, I would die.

Heaven often smites in mercy, even when the blow is severest.

The bliss even of a moment still is bliss.

Still on it creeps, Each little moment at another's heels, Till hours, days, years, and ages are made up Of such small parts as these, and men look back Worn and bewilder'd, wondering how it is.

I believe this earth on which we stand is but the vestibule to glorious mansions through which a moving crowd forever press.