Seas Wept From Our Deep Sorrows.

Forget Thyself To Marble.

How Sweetly Did They Float Upon The Wings Of Silence Through The Empty-vaulted Night, At Every Fall Smoothing The Raven Down Of Darkness Till It Smiled!

Bacchus, That First From Out The Purple Grape Crush'd The Sweet Poison Of Misused Wine.

Our Country Is Where Ever We Are Well Off.

How Often From The Steep Of Echoing Hill Or Thicket Have We Heard Celestial Voices To The Midnight Air, Sole, Or Responsive Each To Other's Note, Singing Their Great Creator?