LINES.
Man knows he is immortal: there's within
A principle that tells him that his soul,
Which in himself exists, shall never die,
Although his outward tenement becomes,
By the slow-wasting chemistry of death,
Forgotten, undistinguishable dust.
His mind, his heart, his impulses, are all
Subservient to his soul, his noblest part,
That came from God, returns to God again.
If he his passions could o'ercome and sway,
Place Prudence as a wary sentinel
On all his words and purposes, that trip
He might in neither, he were great indeed!
But sense and selfishness his judgment warp,
And so debase his nature, that, having not
Of his own mind the moral mastery,
His thoughts, affections, powers, and faculties,
Are under the dominion of a yoke
More galling than a tyrant's. Slave of Sin!