There Goes The Parson, Oh Illustrious Spark!

How Soft The Music Of Those Village Bells, Falling At Interval Upon The Ear In Cadence Sweet; Now Dying All Away, Now Pealing Loud Again, And Louder Still, Clear And Sonorous, As The Gale Comes On! With Easy Force It Opens All The Cells Where Memory Slept.

All Affectation; 'tis My Perfect Scorn; Object Of My Implacable Disgust.

The Spirit Breathes Upon The Word And Brings The Truth To Sight.

Forgot The Blush That Virgin Fears Impart To Modest Cheeks, And Borrowed One From Art.

The Parson Knows Enough Who Knows A Duke.