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England with all thy faults, I love thee still– My country! and, while yet a nook is left Where English minds and manners may be found, Shall be constrained to love thee.

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War’s a game, which, were their subjects wise, Kings would not play at.
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The Spirit breathes upon the Word and brings the truth to sight.
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It chills my blood to hear the blest Supreme Rudely appealed to on each trifling theme.
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The only amarantine flower on earth Is virtue.
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And natural in gesture; much impress’d Himself, as conscious of his awful charge, And anxious mainly that the flock he feeds May feel it too; affectionate in look, And tender in address, as well becomes A messenger of grace to guilty men.
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But still remember, if you mean to please, To press your point with modesty and ease.
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All we behold is miracle.
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