Tears such as angels weep.

The brazen throat of war.

From morn To noon he fell, from noon to dewy eve,- A summer's day; and with the setting sun Dropp'd from the Zenith like a falling star.

And yet on the other hand unless warinesse be us'd, as good almost kill a Man as kill a good Book; who kills a Man kills a reasonable creature, Gods Image, but hee who destroyes a good Booke, kills reason it selfe, kills the Image of God, as it were in the eye.

Never can true reconcilement grow where wounds of deadly hate have pierced so deep.

They are the troublers, they are the dividers of unity, who neglect and don't permit others to unite those dissevered pieces which are yet wanting to the body of Truth.

But see! theVirgin blessed Hath laid her Babe to rest. Time is our tedious song should here have ending.