Fancy, Like The Finger Of A Clock,

He Finds His Fellow Guilty Of A Skin Not Color'd Like His Own, And Having Pow'r T' Enforce The Wrong, For Such A Worthy Cause Dooms And Devotes Him As His Lawful Prey.

How Shall I Speak Thee, Or Thy Power Address Thou God Of Our Idolatry, The Press. . . . . Like Eden's Dead Probationary Tree, Knowledge Of Good And Evil Is From Thee.

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

Blest Be The Art That Can Immortalize.

Built God A Church And Laughed His Word To Scorn.