Hope, Like The Gleaming Taper

As Some Tall Cliff That Lifts Its Awful Form, Swells From The Vale, And Midway Leaves The Storm,- Though Round Its Breast The Rolling Clouds Are Spread, Eternal Sunshine Settles On Its Head.

Laws Grind The Poor, And Rich Men Rule The Law.

That Virtue Which Requires To Be Ever Guarded Is Scarce Worth The Sentinel.

A Man He Was To All The Country Dear, And Passing Rich With Forty Pounds A Year.

In Arguing Too, The Parson Own'd His Skill, For E'en Though Vanquish'd He Could Argue Still; While Words Of Learned Length And Thundering Sound Amaz'd The Gazing Rustics Rang'd Around; And Still They Gaz'd, And Still The Wonder Grew That One Small Head Could Carry All He Knew.