The art of poetry is to touch the passions, and its duty to lead them on the side of virtue.

Remorse, the fatal egg that pleasure laid.

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.

Ye fearful saints fresh courage take, The clouds you so much dread Are big with mercy and shall break, With blessings on your head

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.

When nations are to perish in their sins, 'tis in the Church the leprosy begins.

Blest be the art that can immortalize,--the art that baffles time's tyrannic claim to quench it.