Which comes o'er the bosom, like day o'er the billow To mariners weary and wild with despair;
Which brightens the dungeon, and softens the pillow, And smiles like a rose on our wilderness here.
The mighty and proud in their mansions of pleasure,
May squander their blessings in madness away; The miser may worship his cankering treasure,
Th' atheist deride, and the hypocrite pray With his lips, while his soul is enslaved by ambition; But the being who reigns o'er yon beautiful sphere, Heads the heart, and remembers the sigh of contrition, Nor bruises the reed that is broken and sear.
Truth is to be sought only by slow and painful progress. Error is in its nature flippant and compendious; it hops with airy and fastidious levity over proofs and arguments, and perches upon assertion, which it calls conclusion. CtiRUAM.
THE END.
Thomas White, Printer, 2, Joliuson'l Court.
