Bring, in this timeless grave to throw,No cypress, sombre on the snow;Snap not from the bitter yewHis leaves that live…
Be still, my soul, be still; the arms you bear are brittle,Earth and high heaven are fixt of old and…
As through the wild green hills of WyreThe train ran, changing sky and shire,And far behind, a fading crest,Low in…
From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,The shires have seen it plain,From north and south the sign returnsAnd beacons burn…