No War Or Battle Sound

Now Conscience Wakes Despair That Slumber'd,-wakes The Bitter Memory Of What He Was, What Is, And What Must Be Worse.

The Mountain Nymph, Sweet Liberty.

Bacchus, That First From Out The Purple Grape Crush'd The Sweet Poison Of Misused Wine.

And If By Prayer Incessant I Could Hope To Change The Will Of Him Who All Things Can, I Would Not Cease To Weary Him With My Assiduous Cries.

That Power Which Erring Men Call Chance.