The Art Of Poetry Is To Touch

God Made The Country, And Man Made The Town.

I Pity Bashful Men, Who Feel The Pain Of Fancied Scorn And Undeserved Disdain, And Bear The Marks Upon A Blushing Face, Of Needless Shame, And Self-impos'd Disgrace.

For 'tis A Truth Well Known To Most, That Whatsoever Thing Is Lost, We Seek It, Ere It Comes To Light, In Every Cranny But The Right.

Thieves At Home Must Hang; But He That Puts Into His Overgorged And Bloated Purse The Wealth Of Indian Provinces, Escapes.

Judge Not The Lord By Feeble Sense, But Trust Him For His Grace; Behind A Frowning Providence He Hides A Smiling Face. His Purposes Will Ripen Fast, Unfolding Every Hour;the Bud May Have A Bitter Taste, But Sweet Will Be The Flow’r. Blind Unbelief Is Sure To Err And Scan His Work In Vain; God Is His Own Interpreter, And He Will Make It Plain.