So fallen! so lost! the light withdrawn Which once he wore; The glory from his gray hairs gone For evermore!

Tradition wears a snowy beard, romance is always young.

Round the boles of the pine-wood the ground-laurel creeps, Unkissed of the sunshine, unbaptized of showers, With buds scarcely swelled, which should burst into flowers!

Who fathoms the Eternal Thought? Who talks of scheme and plan? The Lord is God! He needeth not The poor device of man.

Rest if you must, but never quit.

For still the new transcends the old In signs and tokens manifold; Slaves rise up men; the olive waves, With roots deep set in battle graves!

A true life is at once interpreter and proof of the gospel.