For There Are Deeds Which Have No

The Awful Shadow Of Some Unseen Power Floats, Tho' Unseen, Amongst Us.

There Is No Real Wealth But The Labour Of Man.

Gold Is A Living God And Rules In Scorn, All Earthly Things But Virtue.

God Is Represented As Infinite, Eternal, Incomprehensible; He Is Contained Under Every Predicate In Non That The Logic Of Ignorance Could Fabricate.

Senseless Is The Breast And Cold Which Relenting Love Would Fold; Bloodless Are The Veins And Chill Which The Pulse Of Pain Did Fill; Every Little Living Nerve That From Bitter Words Did Swerve Round The Tortur'd Lips And Brow, Are Like Sapless Leaflets Now Frozen Upon December's Bough.