Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
The still small voice of gratitude.
And weep the more, because I weep in vain.
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.
No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.