To Me More Dear, Congenial To My

Wept O'er His Wounds, Or Tales Of Sorrow Done, Shoulder'd His Crutch, And Shew'd How Fields Were Won.

To What Fortuitous Occurrence Do We Not Owe Every Pleasure And Convenience Of Our Lives.

Hope Is Such A Bait, It Covers Any Hook.

Where'er I Roam, Whatever Realms To See, My Heart Untravelled, Fondly Turns To Thee; Still To My Brother Turns, With Ceaseless Pain, And Drags At Each Remove A Lengthening Chain.

Want Of Prudence Is Too Frequently The Want Of Virtue.