O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That

Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of Village Bells When On The Undulating Air They Swim!

Extremes Meet', As The Whiting Said With Its Tail In Its Mouth.

O Bed! O Bed! Delicious Bed! That Heaven Upon Earth To The Weary Head.

A Moment's Thinking Is An Hour In Words.

Spontaneously To God Should Turn The Soul, Like The Magnetic Needle To The Pole; But What Were That Intrinsic Virtue Worth, Suppose Some Fellow, With More Zeal Than Knowledge, Fresh From St. Andrew's College, Should Nail The Conscious Needle To The North?