Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.

Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join, The innumerable caravan which moves, To that mysterious realm where each shall take, His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged by his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed, By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch, About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.