Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

Small service is true service, while it lasts.

In ourselves our safety must be sought. By our own right hand it must be wrought.