The Dove, On Silver Pinions, Winged Her

Yet Nightly Pitch My Moving Tent, A Day's March Nearer Home.

Tis Human Actions Paint The Chart Of Time.

Gashed With Honourable Scars,low In Glory's Lap They Lie;though They Fell, They Fell Like Stars,streaming Splendour Through The Sky.

Who That Hath Ever Been Could Bear To Be No More? Yet Who Would Tread Again The Scene He Trod Through Life Before?

Blue Thou Art, Intensely Blue; Flower, Whence Came Thy Dazzling Hue?