Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime.

Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still.

Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave?

Time is, after all, the greatest of poets; and the sons of Memory stand a better chance of being the heirs of Fame.

If youth be a defect, it is one that we outgrow only too soon.

Whom the heart of man shuts out, Sometimes the heart of God takes in, And fences them all round about With silence mid the worlds loud din.

One thorn of experience is worth a whole wilderness of warning.