We turn to dust, and all our mightiest works die too.
Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair.
Events of all sorts creep or fly exactly as God pleases.
A fool must now and then be right, by chance
But slaves that once conceive the glowing thought Of freedom, in that hope itself possess All that the contest calls for; spirit, strength, The scorn of danger, and united hearts, The surest presage of the good they seek.
God moves in a mysterious way, His wonders to perform. He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.