Eloquence The Soul, Song Charms The Senses.

Avenge, O Lord, Thy Slaughtered Saints, Whose Bones Lie Scattered On The Alpine Mountains Cold; Ev'n Them Who Kept Thy Truth So Pure Of Old When All Our Fathers Worshipped Stocks And Stones Forget Not.

Necessity And Chance Approach Not Me, And What I Will Is Fate.

Few Sometimes May Know, When Thousands Err.

Fairest Of Stars, Last In The Train Of Night, If Better Thou Belong Not To The Dawn.

This Is Servitude, To Serve Th'unwise, Or Him Who Hath Rebelled Against His Worthier, As Thine Now Serve Thee, Thyself Not Free, But To Thyself Enthralled.