The Meanest Flowret Of The

And Weep The More, Because I Weep In Vain.

From Helicon's Harmonious Springs A Thousand Rills Their Mazy Progress Take.

Some Village Hampden, That With Dauntless Breast The Little Tyrant Of His Fields Withstood, Some Mute Inglorious Milton Here May Rest, Some Cromwell Guiltless Of His Country's Blood.

Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words That Burn.

And Hie Him Home, At Evening's Close, To Sweet Repast And Calm Repose.