'T is hers to pluck the amaranthine flower Of faith, and round the sufferer's temples bind Wreaths that endure affliction's heaviest shower, And do not shrink from sorrow's keenest wind.

Books are the best type of the influence of the past.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

We will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind.

Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore of nicely-caluculated less or more.

Delivered from the galling yoke of time.