The Brazen Throat Of War.

Arm The Obdured Breast With Stubborn Patience As With Triple Steel.

And That Must End Us, That Must Be Our Cure: To Be No More. Sad Cure! For Who Would Lose, Though Full Of Pain, This Intellectual Being, Those Thoughts That Wander Through Eternity, To Perish, Rather, Swallowed Up And Lost In The Wide Womb Of Uncreated Night Devoid Of Sense And Motion?

The Sacred Influence Of Light Appears.

And What Is Faith, Love, Virtue Unassayed Alone, Without Exterior Help Sustained?

Spirits That Live Throughout, Vital In Every Part, Not As Frail Man, In Entrails, Heart Or Head, Liver Or Reins, Cannot But By Annihilating Die.