Seas Wept From Our Deep Sorrows.

Of Calling Shapes, And Beck'ning Shadows Dire, And Airy Tongues That Syllable Men's Names.

For No Falsehood Can Endure Touch Of Celestial Temper.

Praise From An Enemy Smells Of Craft.

Thence To The Famous Orators Repair, Those Ancient, Whose Resistless Eloquence Wielded At Will That Fierce Democratie, Shook The Arsenal, And Fulmin'd Over Greece, To Macedon, And Artaxerxes' Throne.

Our Cure, To Be No More; Sad Cure!