All Truth Is Precious, If

Satan Trembles When He Sees The Weakest Saint Upon Their Knees.

Men Deal With Life As Children With Their Play, Who First Misuse, Then Cast Their Toys Away.

Tis Pleasant, Through The Loopholes Of Retreat, To Peep At Such A World; To See The Stir Of The Great Babel, And Not Feel The Crowd.

Solitude, Seeming A Sanctuary, Proves A Grave; A Sepulchre In Which The Living Lie, Where All Good Qualities Grow Sick And Die

Where Penury Is Felt The Thought Is Chain'd, And Sweet Colloquial Pleasures Are But Few.