The Still Small Voice Is

And The Tear That Is Wiped With A Little Address, May Be Follow'd Perhaps By A Smile.

Unmissed But By His Dogs And By His Groom.

Hast Thou Not Learnd What Thou Art Often Told, A Truth Still Sacred, And Believed Of Old, That No Success Attends On Spears And Swords Unblest, And That The Battle Is The Lords?

Thus Happiness Depends, As Nature Shows, Less On Exterior Things Than Most Suppose.

Call'd To The Temple Of Impure Delight He That Abstains, And He Alone, Does Right. If A Wish Wander That Way, Call It Home; He Cannot Long Be Safe Whose Wishes Roam.