Hell Is A City Much

O'er Egypt's Land Of Memory Floods Are Level, And They Are Thine, O Nile! And Well Thou Knowest The Soul-sustaining Airs And Blasts Of Evil, And Fruits, And Poisons Spring Where'er Thou Flowest.

The Cloud Shadows Of Midnight Possess Their Own Repose.

Power, Like A Desolating Pestilence, Pollutes Whatever It Touches.

What If English Toil And Blood Was Poured Forth, Even As A Flood? It Availed, Oh, Liberty, To Dim, But Not Extinguish Thee.

Our Sweetest Songs Are Those That Tell Of Saddest Thought.