To See The Law By Christ Fulfilled,

That Good Diffused May More Abundant Grow.

Oh To Have A Lodge In Some Vast Wilderness. Where Rumors Of Oppression And Deceit, Of Unsuccessful And Successful Wars May Never Reach Me Anymore.

Restraining Prayer, We Cease To Fight; Prayer Keeps The Christian's Armor Bright; And Satan Trembles When He Sees The Weakest Saint Upon His Knees.

Even In The Stifling Bosom Of The Town, A Garden, In Which Nothing Thrives, Has Charms That Soothes The Rich Possessor; Much Consol'd, That Here And There Some Sprigs Of Mournful Mint, Or Nightshade, Or Valerian, Grace The Well He Cultivates.

Misery Still Delights To Trace Its Semblance In Another's Case.