The Best Apology Against False Accusers Is

(that Last Infirmity Of Noble Mind) To Scorn Delights, And Live Laborious Days; But The Fair Guerdon When We Hope To Find, And Think To Burst Out Into Sudden Blaze, Comes The Blind Fury With Th' Abhorred Shears And Slits The Thin-spun Life.

Thou Art My Father, Thou My Author, Thou My Being Gav'st Me; Whom Should I Obey But Thee, Whom Follow?

And Now The Herald Lark Left His Ground-nest, High Tow'ring To Descry The Morn's Approach, And Greet Her With His Song.

Is It True, O Christ In Heaven, That The Highest Suffer The Most? That The Strongest Wander Furthest And Most Hopelessly Are Lost? That The Mark Of Rank In Nature Is Capacity For Pain? That The Anguish Of The Singer Makes The Sweetness Of The Strain?

The Mountain Nymph, Sweet Liberty.