Songs Consecrate To Truth And Liberty.

There Is No Real Wealth But The Labour Of Man.

Love's Very Pain Is Sweet

The Splendors Of The Firmament Of Time May Be Eclipsed, But Are Extinguished Not; Like Stars To Their Appointed Height They Climb And Death Is A Low Mist Which Cannot Blot The Brightness It May Veil.

Love! Dearest, Sweetest Power! How Much Are We Indebted To Thee! How Much Superior Are Even Thy Miseries To The Pleasures Which Arise From Other Sources!

A God Made By Man Undoubtedly Has Need Of Man To Make Himself Known To Man.