The Man Recovered Of The Bite, The

Blest That Abode, Where Want And Pain Repair, And Every Stranger Finds A Ready Chair.

Wept O'er His Wounds, Or Tales Of Sorrow Done, Shoulder'd His Crutch, And Shew'd How Fields Were Won.

You Will Always Find That Those Are Most Apt To Boast Of National Merit, Who Have Little Or Not Merit Of Their Own To Depend On . . .

We Seldom Speak Of The Virtue Which We Have, But Much Oftener Of That Which We Lack.

And Still They Gazed, And Still The Wonder Grew, That One Small Head Could Carry All He Knew.