Oh to have a lodge in some vast wilderness. Where rumors of oppression and deceit, of unsuccessful and successful wars may never reach me anymore.

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

Lord, it is my chief complaint, That my love is weak and faint; Yet I love thee and adore, Oh for grace to love thee more!

Alas! if my best Friend, who laid down His life for me, were to remember all the instances in which I have neglected Him, and to plead them against me in judgment, where should I hide my guilty head in the day of recompense? I will pray, therefore, for blessings on my friends, even though they cease to be so, and upon my enemies, though they continue such.

Some write a narrative of wars and feats, Of heroes little known, and call the rant A history.

But, oh, Thou bounteous Giver of all good, Thou art, of all Thy gifts, Thyself thy crown!

Visits are insatiable devourers of time, and fit only for those who, if they did not that, would do nothing.