The Race By Vigour, Not By Vaunts,

A Field Of Glory Is A Field For All.

For Forms Of Government, Let Fools Contest; Whate'er Is Best Administered, Is Best.

In Pride, In Reas'ning Pride, Our Error Lies; All Quit Their Sphere And Rush Into The Skies. Pride Still Is Aiming At The Bless'd Abodes, Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods.

The Blest To-day Is As Completely So, As Who Began A Thousand Years Ago.

As Some To Church Repair, Not For The Doctrine, But The Music There. These Equal Syllables Alone Require, Though Oft The Ear The Open Vowels Tire While Expletives Their Feeble Aid Do Join, And Ten Low Words Oft Creep In One Dull Line.