Judge not the Lord by feeble sense, but trust Him for His grace; Behind a frowning providence He hides a smiling face.

Remorse begets reform.

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

All truth is precious, if not all divine; and what dilates the powers must needs refine.

Then liberty, like day, Breaks on the soul, and by a flash from Heaven Fires all the faculties with glorious joy.

Solitude, seeming a sanctuary, proves a grave; a sepulchre in which the living lie, where all good qualities grow sick and die

But animated nature sweeter still, to soothe and satisfy the human ear.