Where the Scriptures speak, we speak; where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.
One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.
What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.
But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.
To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.
The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.