Much as the sage may affect to despise the opinion of the world, there are few who would not rather expose their lives a hundred times than be condemned to live on, in society, but not of it - a by-word of reproach to all who know their history, and a mark for scorn to point his finger at.

Aid the dawning, tongue and pen; Aid it, hopes of honest men!

There's a fount about to stream, There's a light about to beam, There's a warmth about to glow, There's a flower about to blow; There's a midnight blackness changing Into gray; Men of thought and men of action, Clear the way.

Water is the mother of the vine, the nurse and fountain of fecundity, the adorner and refresher of the world.

Truth . . . and if mine eyes Can bear its blaze, and trace its symmetries, Measure its distance, and its advent wait, I am no prophet - I but calculate.

Tell me, ye wingèd winds That round my pathway roar, Know ye not some spot Where mortals weep no more?

If happy I and wretched he, Perhaps the king would change with me.