Misery Still Delights To Trace Its Semblance

Time, As He Passes Us, Has A Dove's Wing, Unsoil'd, And Swift, And Of A Silken Sound.

He Is The Freeman Whom The Truth Makes Free, And All Are Slaves Besides.

Trials Make The Promise Sweet, Trials Give New Life To Prayer; Trials Bring Me To His Feet, Lay Me Low, And Keep Me There.

Tis Pleasant, Through The Loopholes Of Retreat, To Peep At Such A World; To See The Stir Of The Great Babel, And Not Feel The Crowd.

Oh, Popular Applause! What Heart Of Man Is Proof Against Thy Sweet Seducing Charms? The Wisest And The Best Feel Urgent Need Of All Their Caution In Thy Gentlest Gales; But Swell'd Into A Gust--who Then, Alas! With All His Canvas Set, And Inexpert, And Therefore, Heedless, Can Withstand Thy Power?