Look Homeward, Angel, Now, And Melt With

The Redundant Locks, Robustious To No Purpose, Clustering Down--vast Monument Of Strength.

Fate Shall Yield To Fickle Chance, And Chaos Judge The Strife.

Death Is The Golden Key That Opens The Palace Of Eternity.

But That From Us Aught Should Ascend To Heav'n So Prevalent As To Concern The Mind Of God, High-bless'd, Or To Incline His Will, Hard To Belief May Seem; Yet This Will Prayer.

Cyriack, Whose Grandsire On The Royal Bench Of British Themis, With No Mean Applause Pronounced And In His Volumes Taught Our Laws, Which Others At Their Bar So Often Wrench