Heaven Take My Soul, And England Keep

Look, The World's Comforter, With Weary Gait, His Day's Hot Task Hath Ended In The West: The Owl, Night's Herald, Shrieks-'tis Very Late; The Sheep Are Gone To Fold, Birds To Their Nest; And Coal-black Clouds, That Shadow Heaven's Light, Do Summon Us To Part, And Bid Good Night.

Why Are Our Bodies Soft, And Weak, And Smooth But That Our Soft Conditions And Our Hearts Should Well Agree With Our External Parts?

An Habitation Giddy And Unsure Hath He That Buildeth On The Vulgar Heart.

The Brain May Devise Laws For The Blood, But A Hot Temper Leaps O'er A Cold Decree.

Speak Comfortable Words.