In All The Silent Manliness Of Grief.

To Aim At Excellence, Our Reputation, And Friends, And All Must Be Ventured; To Aim At The Average We Run No Risk And Provide Little Service.

The Heart Of Every Man Lies Open To The Shafts Of Correction If The Archer Can Take Proper Aim.

As Some Tall Cliff That Lifts Its Awful Form, Swells From The Vale, And Midway Leaves The Storm,- Though Round Its Breast The Rolling Clouds Are Spread, Eternal Sunshine Settles On Its Head.

No One But A Fool Would Measure Their Satisfaction By What The World Thinks Of It.

No Vernal Blooms Their Torpid Rocks Array, But Winter Lingering Chills The Lap Of May; No Zephyr Fondly Sues The Mountain's Breast, But Meteors Glare, And Stormy Glooms Invest.