Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.

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

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

Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

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.

Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!