The Still Small Voice Of

In Buskined Measures Move Pale Grief And Pleasing Pain, With Horror, Tyrant Of The Throbbing Breast.

To Each His Suff'rings: All Are Men, / Condemn'd Alike To Groan, / The Tender For Another's Pain; / Th' Unfeeling For His Own.

Sorrow's Faded Form, And Solitude Behind.

The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

When Love Could Teach A Monarch To Be Wise, And Gospel-light First Dawn'd From Bullen's Eyes.