Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.

Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.

But who shall parcel out His intellect by geometric rules, Split like a province into round and square?

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.

Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.