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.

God moves in mysterious ways His wonders to performs

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.

An epigram is but a feeble thing - With straw in tail, stuck there by way of sting.

Strange as it may seem, the most ludicrous lines I ever wrote have been written in the saddest mood.

Is base in kind, and born to be a slave.

Where men of judgment creep and feel their way, The positive pronounce without dismay.