But Monument Themselves Memorials Need.

Oh! 'tis A Precious Thing, When Wives Are Dead, To Find Such Numbers Who Will Serve Instead: And In Whatever State A Man Be Thrown, 'tis That Precisely They Would Wish Their Own.

Men Famed For Wit, Of Dangerous Talents Vain, Treat Those Of Common Parts With Proud Disdain; The Powers That Wisdom Would, Improving, Hide, They Blaze Abroad, With Inconsid'rate Pride; While Yet But Mere Probationers For Fame, They Seize The Honor They Should Then Disclaim: Honor So Hurried To The Light Must Fade, The Lasting Laurels Nourish In The Shade.

A Club There Is Of Smokers--dare You Come To That Close, Clouded, Hot, Narcotic Room? When, Midnight Past, The Very Candles Seem Dying For Air, And Give A Ghastly Gleam; When Curling Fumes In Lazy Wreaths Arise, And Prosing Topers Rub Their Winking Eyes.

We Cannot Heal The Throbbing Heart Till We Discern The Wounds Within.

Arrogance Is The Act Of The Great; Presumption That Of The Little.