His Voice Was The Most

I Toiled After It, Sir, As Some Men Toil After Virtue.

Can We Ring The Bells Backward? Can We Unlearn The Arts That Pretend To Civilize, And Then Burn The World? There Is A March Of Science; But Who Shall Beat The Drums For Its Retreat?

A Sweet Child Is The Sweetest Thing In Nature.

The Red-letter Days, Now Become, To All Intents And Purposes, Dead-letter Days.

The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls The Soul Of Music Shed, Now Hangs As Mute On Tara's Walls As If That Soul Were Fled. So Sleeps The Pride Of Former Days, So Glory's Thrill Is O'er; And Hearts That Once Beat High For Praise Now Feel That Pulse No More.