Come, Pensive Nun, Devout And

Such As The Meeting Soul May Pierce, In Notes With Many A Winding Bout Of Linked Sweetness Long Drawn Out.

Cedar, And Pine, And Fir, And Branching Palm, A Sylvan Scene, And As The Ranks Ascend Shade Above Shade, A Woody Theatre Of Stateliest View.

I Hate When Vice Can Bolt Her Arguments, And Virtue Has No Tongue To Check Her Pride.

So Sinks The Day-star In The Ocean Bed, And Yet Anon Repairs His Drooping Head, And Tricks His Beams, And With New-spangled Ore Flames In The Forehead Of The Morning Sky.

It Is Not Hard For Any Man Who Hath A Bible In His Hand To Borrow Good Words And Holy Sayings In Abundance; But To Make Them His Own Is A Work Of Grace Only From Above.