Meek Walton's heavenly memory.
The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.
A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.
But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.
The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.