The Few That Pray At All Pray

Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

The Innocent Seldom Find An Uncomfortable Pillow.

Come, Evening, Once Again, Season Of Peace; Return, Sweet Evening, And Continue Long! Methinks I See Thee In The Streaky West, With Matron Step, Slow Moving, While The Night Treads On Thy Sweeping Train; One Hand Employ'd In Letting Fall The Curtain Of Repose On Bird And Beast, The Other Charged For Man With Sweet Oblivion Of The Cares Of Day.

But, Oh, Thou Bounteous Giver Of All Good, Thou Art, Of All Thy Gifts, Thyself Thy Crown!

Without One Friend, Above All Foes, Britannia Gives The World Repose.