Low stir of leaves and dip of oars And lapsing waves on quiet shores.
For all sad words of tongue and pen, The saddest are these, 'It might have been'.
I know not where His islands lift Their fronded palms in air; I only know I cannot drift Beyond His love and care.
Reason's voice and God's, Nature's and Duty's, never are at odds.
Man is more than constitutions.
Bathsheba! to whom none ever said scat- No worthier cat Ever sat on a mat, Or caught a rat. Requiescat!