A Man May Be Ungrateful, But The

The Low'ring Element Scowls O'er The Darken'd Landscape.

On A Sudden Open Fly With Impetuous Recoil And Jarring Sound Th' Infernal Doors, And On Their Hinges Grate Harsh Thunder.

There Is No Truth Sure Enough To Justify Persecution.

To Overcome In Battle, And Subdue Nations, And Bring Home Spoils With Infinite Man-slaughter, Shall Be Held The Highest Pitch Of Human Glory.

At His Birth A Star, Unseen Before In Heaven, Proclaims Him Come.