Most Glorious Night! Thou Wert Not Sent

I Speak Not Of Men's Creeds—they Rest Between Man And His Maker.

A Timid Mind Is Apt To Mistake Every Scratch For A Mortal Wound.

Nor All That Heralds Rake From Coffin'd Clay, Nor Florid Prose, Nor Honied Lies Of Rhyme, Can Blazon Evil Deeds, Or Consecrate A Crime.

I Would Rather Have A Nod From An American, Than A Snuff- Box From An Emperor.

If Ancient Tales Say True, Nor Wrong These Holy Men.