Great Offices Will Have Great Talents.

It Chills My Blood To Hear The Blest Supreme Rudely Appealed To On Each Trifling Theme.

Satan Trembles When He Sees The Weakest Saint Upon Their Knees.

There Is In Souls A Sympathy With Sounds.

The Slaves Of Custom And Established Mode, With Pack-horse Constancy We Keep The Road Crooked Or Straight, Through Quags Or Thorny Dells, True To The Jingling Of Our Leader's Bells.

Where Penury Is Felt The Thought Is Chain'd, And Sweet Colloquial Pleasures Are But Few.