One Moment May With Bliss

O Leave This Barren Spot To Me! Spare, Woodman, Spare The Beechen Tree.

O Star-eyed Science, Hast Thou Wander'd There, To Waft Us Home The Message Of Despair?

On The Green Banks Of Shannon, When Sheelah Was Nigh, No Blithe Irish Lad Was So Happy As I, No Harp Like My Own Could So Cheerily Play, And Wherever I Went Was My Poor Dog Tray.

Who Hath Not Own'd, With Rapture-smitten Frame, The Power Of Grace, The Magic Of A Name.

For There No Yew Nor Cypress Spread Their Glom But Roses Blossom'd Each Rustic Tomb.