In ourselvesIn our own honest hearts and chainless handsWill be our safeguard

So his life has flowed, From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure, Alone are mirrored; which, though shapes of ill, May hover round its surface, glides in light, And takes no shadow from them.

Tis a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught of cool refreshment, drain'd by fever'd lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarean juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.

To him who has thought, or done, or suffered much, the level days of his childhood seem at an immeasureable distance, far off as the age of chivalry, or as the line of Sesostris.

Fill the seats of justice with good men, not so absolute in goodness as to forget what human frailty is.

In ourselvesIn our own honest hearts and chainless handsWill be our safeguard

It is a little thing to speak a phrase of common comfort, which by daily use has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear of him who thought to die unmourned it will fall like choicest music.