Softly the loud peal dies, In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys, Tender tones.

While the battle rages loud and long, / And the stormy winds do blow.

The tender heart, the broken and contrite spirit, are to me far above all the joys that I could ever hope for in this vale of tears.

What would it profit thee to be the first Of echoes, tho thy tongue should live forever, A thing that answers, but hath not a thought As lasting but as senseless as a stone.

Two aged men, that had been foes for life, Met by a grave, and wept - and in those tears They washed away the memory of their strife; Then wept again the loss of all those years.

Softly the loud peal dies, In passing winds it drowns, But breathes, like perfect joys, Tender tones.