The Proud Are Ever Most Provoked By

There Is No Flesh In Man's Obdurate Heart; He Does Not Feel For Man.

Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

Lord, It Is My Chief Complaint, That My Love Is Weak And Faint; Yet I Love Thee And Adore, Oh For Grace To Love Thee More!

No, Freedom Has A Thousand Charms To Show That Slaves, Howe'er Contented, Never Know.

How Shall I Speak Thee, Or Thy Power Address Thou God Of Our Idolatry, The Press. . . . . Like Eden's Dead Probationary Tree, Knowledge Of Good And Evil Is From Thee.