Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
I shall be but a shrimp of an author.
And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.
The still small voice of gratitude.
If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.
Sweet is the breath of vernal shower,/ The bee's collected treasure sweet,/ Sweet music's melting fall, but sweeter yet/ The still small voice of gratitude.