My Books Kept Me From The Ring,

Whilst Breezy Waves Toss Up Their Silvery Spray.

Mother Of Light! How Fairly Dost Thou Go Over Those Hoary Crests, Divinely Led! Art Thou That Huntress Of The Silver Bow Fabled Of Old? Or Rather Dost Thou Tread Those Cloudy Summits Thence To Gaze Below, Like The Wild Chamois From Her Alpine Snow, Where Hunters Never Climbed--secure From Dread?

When He Is Forsaken, Withered And Shaken, What Can An Old Man Do But Die?

Alas For The Rarity Of Christian Charity Under The Sun!

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.