No one was ever scolded out of their sins.

My soul is sick with every day's report of wrong and outrage with which earth is filled.

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds: And as the mind is pitch'd the ear is pleased With melting airs, or martial, brisk or grave; Some chord in unison with what we hear Is touch'd within us, and the heart replies.

Man disavows, and Deity disowns me: hell might afford my miseries a shelter; therefore hell keeps her ever-hungry mouths all bolted against me.

God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.

It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.

Just knows, and knows no more, her Bible true,- A truth the brilliant Frenchman never knew.