Alas! When Duty Grows Thy

Weep, For The Light Is Dead.

Regarded In Isolation, An Idea May Be Quite Insignificant, And Venturesome In The Extreme, But It May Acquire Importance From An Idea Which Follows It; Perhaps, In A Certain Collocation With Other Ideas, Which May Seem Equally Absurd, It May Be Capable Of Furnishing A Very Serviceable Link.

Accursed Be He Who Plays With The Devil.

Man Ever Talks, And Man Ever Dreams Of Better Days That Are Yet To Be, After Glittering Goal, That Distant Gleams, Running And Racing Untiringly. The Worldly May Grow Old And Young As It Will, But The Hope Of Man Is Improvement Still. Hope Bears Him Into Life In Her Arms, She Flutters Around The Boy's Young Bloom, The Soul Of Youth With Her Magic Warms, Nor Rests With Age In The Silent Tomb; For Ends Man His Weary Course At The Grave, There Plants He Hope O'er His Ashes To Wave.

The Great Happiness Of Life, I Find, After All, To Consist In The Regular Discharge Of Some Mechanical Duty.