Date: 1807-8

"Let them approach: / Myriads of slaves like these appal not me, / Who in my people's hearts have built my throne, / Strong as their courage, stedfast as their truth."

— Burges, Sir James Bland (1752-1824)

Date: 1807-8

"Thus with the show of reason, but with hearts, / By faction tainted, and by envy steel'd / Against their youthful leader, they had hop'd / By these inglorious councils to degrade / And tarnish his high fame."

— Burges, Sir James Bland (1752-1824)

Date: 1807-8

"Since, then, th' Eternal Pow'r has stamp'd each mind, / Pure and congenial, in one common mould"

— Burges, Sir James Bland (1752-1824)

Date: 1807-8

"Oh! had [Heaven] stamp'd upon the human mind / The mild forbearance, and the love unfeign'd"

— Burges, Sir James Bland (1752-1824)

Date: 1807-8

"[T]hrough the cells / And channels of his phrensy-stricken brain / Rage and confusion rush'd; the solemn peal / Broke on his ear like his salvation's knell, / Whilst his vext conscience struggled, but too late, / To rend th' insatiate demon from his heart"

— Burges, Sir James Bland (1752-1824)

Date: 1807-8

"So minds debas'd can torture gen'rous acts: / And thus, by terrors haunted, hunger-pinch'd, / Hag-ridden by the demon at their hearts, / Suspicious, tost from thought to thought, they watch'd / The lagging hours of night"

— Burges, Sir James Bland (1752-1824)

Date: 1807-8

"Much it behoves us to compute the strength / Of him, whose ruin we would work, of him, / Who vaunts himself the legate of Jehovah, / And by that title keeps our souls in thrall / And bondage worse than what our limbs endur'd / Under the yoke of Pharaoh."

— Burges, Sir James Bland (1752-1824)

Date: 1815

One may be a "groveling slave of sense" (e.g., a miser or a epicure)

— Combe, William (1742 -1823)

Date: 1815

"Is Man to say--I've reach'd the goal, / I'll now dismiss th'imprison'd soul; / With my own hand I'll ope the way / From its base tenement of clay."

— Combe, William (1742 -1823)

Date: 1815

"With my own hand I'll ope the way / From its base tenement of clay; / Tir'd of its suff'rings here below, / I'll loose it from this scene of woe; / I'll prune its wings and let it fly, / To seek again its native sky."

— Combe, William (1742 -1823)