Devotion's Self Shall Steal A

And Soften'd Sounds Along The Waters Die: Smooth Flow The Waves, The Zephyrs Gently Play.

Nor Public Flame, Nor Private, Dares To Shine; Nor Human Spark Is Left, Nor Glimpse Divine! Lo! Thy Dread Empire, Chaos! Is Restored; Light Dies Before Thy Uncreating Word: Thy Hand, Great Anarch! Lets The Curtain Fall; And Universal Darkness Buries All.

As The Twig Is Bent, So Grows The Tree.

'tis Not A Lip, Or Eye, We Beauty Call, But The Joint Force And Full Result Of All.

The Right Divine Of Kings To Govern Wrong.