All We Behold Is Miracle.

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

Slaves Cannot Breathe In England; If Their Lungs Receive Our Air, That Moment They Are Free; They Touch Our Country, And Their Shackles Fall.

A Noisy Man Is Always In The Right.

No Tree In All The Grove But Has Its Charms, Though Each Its Hue Peculiar.

If Hindrances Obstruct The Way, Thy Magnanimity Display. And Let Thy Strength Be Seen: But O, If Fortune Fill Thy Sail With More Than A Propitious Gale, Take Half Thy Canvas In.