The intellectual power, through words and things, Went sounding on a dim and perilous way!

Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

A happy youth, and their old age Is beautiful and free.

We live by admiration, hope and love.