For Love will still be lord of all.

Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more. Days of danger, nights of waking.

November's sky is chill and drear, November's leaf is red and sear.

Will future ages believe that such stupid bigotry ever existed!

I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.

O! many a shaft, at random sent, Finds mark the archer little meant! And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken!

We often praise the evening clouds, And tints so gay and bold, But seldom think upon our God, Who tinged these clouds with gold.