I Will Not Allow My

That Power Which Erring Men Call Chance.

This Is Servitude, To Serve Th'unwise, Or Him Who Hath Rebelled Against His Worthier, As Thine Now Serve Thee, Thyself Not Free, But To Thyself Enthralled.

A Man May Be Ungrateful, But The Human Race Is Not So.

These Eyes, Tho' Clear To Outward View Of Blemish Or Of Spot, Bereft Of Light, Their Seeing Have Forgot, Nor To Their Idle Orbs Doth Sight Appear Of Sun, Or Moon, Or Star, Throughout The Year, Or Man, Or Woman. Yet I Argue Not Against Heaven's Hand Or Will, Not Bate A Jot Of Heart Or Hope; But Still Bear Up And Steer Right Onward.

Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself Would Stoop To Her.