An Hour Will Come, With

I Have A Soul That Like An Ample Shield Can Take In All, And Verge Enough For More.

For All Have Not The Gift Of Martyrdom.

So Poetry, Which Is In Oxford Made An Art, In London Only Is A Trade.

So Softly Death Succeeded Life In Her, She Did But Dream Of Heaven, And She Was There.

There's A Proud Modesty In Merit; Averse From Asking, And Resolved To Pay Ten Times The Gifts It Asks.