Nor scorn the aid which Fancy oft doth lend
The Soul's eternal interests to promote:
Death, darkness, danger, are our natural lot;
And evil Spirits may our walk attend
For aught the wisest know or comprehend;
Then let the good be free to breathe a note
Of elevation--let their odours float
Around these Converts, and their glories blend,
Outshining nightly tapers, or the blaze
Of the noon-day. Nor doubt that golden cords
Of good works, mingling with the visions, raise
The soul to purer worlds: and who the line
Shall draw, the limits of the power define,
That even imperfect faith to Man affords?
Design, coding, and editing: Copyright © 1997-2004 by James M. Garrett. All rights reserved.