Goodness Thinks No Ill Where No Ill

And Storied Windows Richly Dight, Casting A Dim Religious Light.

Hear All Ye Angels, Progeny Of Light, Thrones, Dominations, Princedoms, Virtues, Powers.

Ere The Blabbing Eastern Scout, The Nice Morn, On Th' Indian Steep From Her Cabin'd Loop-hole Peep.

If We Think We Regulate Printing, Thereby To Rectify Manners, We Must Regulate All Regulations And Pastimes, All That Is Delightful To Man.

I Fled, And Cry'd Out, Death; Hell Trembled At The Hideous Name, And Sigh'd From All Her Caves, And Back Resounded, Death.