Thomas Moore

Humility, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot.

Humility, that low, sweet root,
From which all heavenly virtues shoot.

Good-bye--my paper's out so nearly,
I've only room for, Yours sincerely.

Good-bye--my paper's out so nearly,
I've only room for, Yours sincerely.

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells!

Those evening bells! those evening bells!
How many a tale their music tells!

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye read more

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night.

Take up the cross if thou the crown would'st gain.
[Lat., Tolle crucem, qui vis auferre coronam.]

Take up the cross if thou the crown would'st gain.
[Lat., Tolle crucem, qui vis auferre coronam.]