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

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars.

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.

Thou shalt not covet; but tradition approves all forms of competition.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main. And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light; In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly! But westward, look, the land is bright!

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?

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