And almost everyone when age, disease, or sorrows strike him, inclines to think there is a God, or something very like him.

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, but westward, look, the land is bright.

It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe'er I stray and range, Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip Thou dost not fall.

Grace is given of god, but knowledge is bought in the market.

Action will furnish belief,-but will that belief be the true one? This is the point, you know.

Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them?

That out of sight is out of mind is true of most we leave behind.