Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest

Ben Battle Was A Soldier Bold, And Used To War's Alarms, But A Cannon-ball Took Off His Legs, So He Laid Down His Arms.

Experience Enables Me To Depose To The Comfort And Blessing That Literature Can Prove In Seasons Of Sickness And Sorrow.

I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty Morn Stand Shadowless Like Silence, Listening To Silence, For No Lonely Bird Would Sing Into His Hollow Ear From Woods Forlorn, Nor Lowly Hedge Nor Solitary Thorn;- Shaking His Languid Locks All Dewy Bright With Tangled Gossamer That Fell By Night, Pearling His Coronet Of Golden Corn.

Whoe'er Has Gone Thro' London Street, Has Seen A Butcher Gazing At His Meat, And How He Keeps Gloating Upon A Sheep's Or Bullock's Personals, As If His Own; How He Admires His Halves And Quarters--and His Calves, As If In Truth Upon His Own Legs Grown.

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat