The Happy Man Does Not Notice The

Wouldst Thou Wisely, And With Pleasure, Pass The Days Of Life's Short Measure, From The Slow One Counsel Take, But A Tool Of Him Ne'er Make; Ne'er As Friend The Swift One Know, Nor The Constant One As Foe.

What Else Is Chance But The Rude Stone Which Receives Its Life From The Sculptor's Hand? Providence Gives Us Chance, And Man Must Mould It To His Own Designs.

Courage, Ne'er By Sorrow Broken! Aid Where Tears Of Virtue Flow; Faith To Keep Each Promise Spoken! Truth Alike To Friend And Foe!

O'er Ocean, With A Thousand Masts, Sails Forth The Stripling Bold- One Boat, Hard Rescued From The Deep, Draws Into Port The Old!

Every True Genius Is Bound To Be Naive.