Have Hung My Dank And Dropping Weeds

Avenge, O Lord, Thy Slaughtered Saints, Whose Bones Lie Scattered On The Alpine Mountains Cold; Ev'n Them Who Kept Thy Truth So Pure Of Old When All Our Fathers Worshipped Stocks And Stones Forget Not.

Her Silent Course Advance With Inoffensive Pace, That Spinning Sleeps On Her Soft Axle.

What Is Strength Without A Double Share Of Wisdom?

Who Can Enjoy Alone? Or All Enjoying What Contentment Find?

Our Country Is Where Ever We Are Well Off.