Talking With A Friend Is Nothing Else

When All Thy Mercies, O My God, My Rising Soul Surveys, Transported With The View I'm Lost, In Wonder, Love And Praise.

Love, Anger, Pride And Avarice All Visibly Move In Those Little Orbs.

Nations With Nations Mix'd Confus'dly Die, And Lost In One Promiscuous Carnage Lie.

'tis Liberty That Crowns Britannia's Isle, And Makes Her Barren Rocks And Her Bleak Mountains Smile... 'tis Britain's Care To Watch O'er Europe's Fate, And Hold In Balance Each Contending State, To Threaten Bold Presumptuous Kings With War, And Answer Her Afflicted Neighbours' Prayer... Soon As Her Fleets Appear Their Terrors Cease.

With What Astonishment And Veneration May We Look Into Our Own Souls, Where There Are Such Hidden Stores Of Virtue And Knowledge, Such Inexhaustible Sources Of Perfection. We Know Not Yet What We Shall Be, Nor Will It Ever Enter Into The Heart To Conceive The Glory That Will Be Always In Reserve For It.