There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

Oh! God! That bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap!

Alas for the rarity Of Christian charity Under the sun!

Oh would I were dead now, Or up in my bed now, To cover my head now, And have a good cry!

A certain portion of the human race has certainly a taste for being diddled.

No blessed leisure for love or hope, But only time for grief.

There is not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord of melancholy.