My Latest Found, Heaven's Last, Best Gift,

For The Air Of Youth, Hopeful And Cheerful, In Thy Blood Will Reign A Melancholy Damp Of Cold And Dry To Weigh Thy Spirits Down, And Last Consume The Balm Of Life.

The Conquer'd, Also, And Enslaved By War, Shall, With Their Freedom Lost, All Virtue Lose.

The Sacred Influence Of Light Appears.

A Dungeon Horrible, On All Sides Round, As One Great Furnace, Flamed; Yet From Those Flames No Light, But Rather Darkness Visible Serv'd Only To Discover Sights Of Woe, Regions Of Sorrow, Doleful Shades, Where Peace And Rest Can Never Dwell, Hope Never Comes That Comes To All; But Torture Without End.

The Pilot Of The Galilean Lake; Two Massy Keys He Bore, Of Metals Twain (the Golden Opes, The Iron Shuts Amain).