Sketch of Connecticut, Forty Years Since — Chapter II

"The toil-worn Cotter from his labour goes—This night his weekly moil is at an end;Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend;And weary o'er the moor his course doth homeward bend."Burns' Cotter's Saturday Night.

"Thy dart flew thrice and thrice my peace was slain,And thrice, ere thrice, yon moon had fill'd her horn."

"There is a land of pure delight,Where saints immortal reign;Infinite day excludes the night,And pleasures banish pain."