The Earth, Though In Comparison

Th' Ethereal Mould Incapable Of Stain Would Soon Expel Her Mischief, And Purge Off The Baser Fire, Victorious. Thus Repuls'd, Our Final Hope Is Flat Despair.

Antichrist Is Mammon's Son.

Meadows Trim With Daisies Pied, Shallow Brooks And Rivers Wide Towers And Battlements It Sees Bosom'd High In Tufted Trees, Where Perhaps Some Beauty Lies, The Cynosure Of Neighboring Eyes.

Courage Never To Submit Of Yield.

Darkness Now Rose, As Daylight Sunk, And Brought In Low'ring Night Her Shadowy Offspring.