Then read from the treasured volume the poem of thy choice, and lend to the rhyme of the poet the beauty of thy voice.

In the elder days of art Builders wrought with greatest care Each minute and unseen part, For the Gods are everywhere

Resolve and thou art free.

Give what you have. To some one, it may be better than you dare to think.

Look, then, into thine heart, and write!

Art is the child of nature in whom we trace the features of the mothers face.

Time has a doomsday book, upon whose pages he is continually recording illustrious names. But as often as a new name is written there, an old one disappears. Only a few stand in illuminated characters never to be effaced.