My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's

Truth Is The Golden Girdle Of The Globe.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face. His Purposes Will Ripen Fast, Unfolding Every Hour;the Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flow’r. Blind Unbelief Is Sure To Err And Scan His Work In Vain; God Is His Own Interpreter, And He Will Make It Plain.

England, With All Thy Faults I Love Thee Still, My Country!

No Traveler E'er Reached That Blest Abode Who Found Not Thorns And Briers In His Road.

To Follow Foolish Precedents, And Wink With Both Our Eyes, Is Easier Than To Think.