We often praise the evening clouds, And tints so gay and bold, But seldom think upon our God, Who tinged these clouds with gold.

Woman's faith and woman's trust, Write the characters in dust.

Sordid selfishness doth contract and narrow our benevolence, and cause us, like serpents, to infold ourselves within ourselves, and to turn out our stings to the entire world besides.

But with morning cool repentance came.

Hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.

November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear.

There is a vulgar incredulity, which in historical matters, as well as in those of religion, finds it easier to doubt than to examine.