How In The Turmoil Of Life Can

The Leaves Of Memory Seemed To Make A Mournful Rustling In The Dark

There Is No Death! What Seems So Is Transition; This Life Of Mortal Breath Is But A Suburb Of The Life Elysian, Whose Portal We Call Death.

See Yonder Fire! It Is The Moon Slow Rising O'er The Eastern Hill. It Glimmers On The Forest Tips, And Through The Dewy Foliage Drips In Little Rivulets Of Light, And Makes The Heart In Love With Night.

At First Laying Down, As A Fact Fundamental, That Nothing With God Can Be Accidental.

Weak Minds Make Treaties With The Passions They Cannot Overcome, And Try To Purchase Happiness At The Expense Of Principle; But The Resolute Will Of A Strong Man Scorns Such Means, And Struggles Nobly With His Foe To Achieve Great Deeds.