Man is man, and master of his fate.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls; 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.

And blessings on the falling out That all the more endears, When we fall out with those we love And kiss again with tears!

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Tho' much is taken, much abides.

And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!