I Am Persuaded That There Is No

In Grief We Know The Worst Of What We Feel But Who Can Tell The End Of What We Fear?

The Soul On Earth Is An Immortal Guest, Compelled To Starve At An Unreal Feast: A Spark, Which Upward Tends By Nature's Force: A Stream Diverted From Its Parent Source; A Drop Dissever'd From The Boundless Sea; A Moment, Parted From Eternity; A Pilgrim Panting For The Rest To Come; An Exile, Anxious For His Native Home.

One Kernel Is Felt In A Hogshead; One Drop Of Water Helps To Swell The Ocean; A Spark Of Fire Helps To Give Light To The World. None Are Too Small, Too Feeble, Too Poor To Be Of Service. Think Of This And Act.

The Uncandid Censurer Always Picks Out The Worst Man Of A Class, And Then Confidently Produces Him As Being A Fair Specimen Of It.

Those Who Want Nothing Are Apt To Forget How Many There Are Who Want Every Thing.