What rights are those that dare not resist for them?

What are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

Not once or twice in our rough island story, The path of duty was the way to glory.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.