The Brazen Throat Of War.

And If By Prayer Incessant I Could Hope To Change The Will Of Him Who All Things Can, I Would Not Cease To Weary Him With My Assiduous Cries.

His Sleep Was Aery Light, From Pure Digestion Bred.

Lords Are Lordliest In Their Wine.

These Evils I Deserve, And More . . . . Justly, Yet Despair Not Of His Final Pardon, Whose Ear Is Ever Open, And His Eye Gracious To Re-admit The Suppliant.

Who, As They Sung, Would Take The Prison'd Soul And Lap It In Elysium.