Now Conscience Wakes Despair That Slumber'd,-wakes The

And What Is Faith, Love, Virtue Unassayed Alone, Without Exterior Help Sustained?

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.

And The More I See Pleasures About Me, So Much More I Feel Torment Within Me.

There Swift Return Diurnal, Merely To Officiate Light Round This Opacous Earth, This Punctual Spot.

The Hungry Sheep Look Up, And Are Not Fed.