Thou art my father, thou my author, thou my being gav'st me; whom should I obey but thee, whom follow?

The olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long.

There is nothing that making men rich and strong but that which they carry inside of them. True wealth is of the heart, not of the hand.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began.

Now conscience wakes despair That slumber'd,-wakes the bitter memory Of what he was, what is, and what must be Worse.

What better can we do than prostrate fall before Him reverent, and there confess humbly our faults, and pardon beg with tears watering the ground?

And these gems of Heav'n, her starry train.