Some love to roam o'er the dark sea's foam, Where the shrill winds whistle free.

Some love to roam o'er the dark sea's foam, Where the shrill winds whistle free.

Nations, like individuals, cannot become desperate gamblers with impunity. Punishment is sure to overtake them sooner or later.

An arrow may fly through the air and leave no trace; but an ill thought leaves a trail like a serpent.

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

Money, again, has often been a cause of the delusion of the multitudes. Sober nations have all at once become desperate gamblers, and risked almost their existence upon the turn of a piece of paper.

Men of thought and men of action, clear the Way!