The Spirit Breathes Upon The

Far Happier Are The Dead Methinks Than They Who Look For Death And Fear It Every Day.

I Pity Bashful Men, Who Feel The Pain Of Fancied Scorn And Undeserved Disdain, And Bear The Marks Upon A Blushing Face, Of Needless Shame, And Self-impos'd Disgrace.

To Follow Foolish Precedents, And Wink With Both Our Eyes, Is Easier Than To Think.

Events Of All Sorts Creep Or Fly Exactly As God Pleases.

But Oars Alone Can Ne'er Prevail To Reach The Distant Coast; The Breath Of Heaven Must Swell The Sail, Or All The Toil Is Lost.