Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery

Comfort And Indolence Are Cronies.

The Autumn Is Old; The Sere Leaves Are Flying; He Hath Gather'd Up Gold, And Now He Is Dying;- Old Age, Begin Sighing!

There Is A Silence Where Hath Been No Sound, There Is A Silence Where No Sound May Be,- In The Cold Grave, Under The Deep, Deep Sea, Or In The Wide Desert Where No Life Is Found.

My Books Kept Me From The Ring, The Dog-pit, The Tavern, And The Saloon.

Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of Village Bells When On The Undulating Air They Swim!