The way was long, the wind was cold, The Minstrel was infirm and old; His withered cheek, and tresses gray, Seemed to have know a better day.

On his bold visage middle age Had slightly press'd its signet sage, Yet had not quench'd the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth: Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare.

Soldier, rest! Thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking, Dream of battled fields no more. Days of danger, nights of waking.

Discretion is the perfection of reason, and a guide to us in all the duties of life.

There is a southern proverb - fine words butter no parsnips.

Still are the thoughts to memory dear.

Some feelings are to mortals given With less of earth in them than heaven.