Far Happier Are The Dead

Tis Providence Alone Secures In Every Change Both Mine And Yours.

Some Write A Narrative Of Wars And Feats, Of Heroes Little Known, And Call The Rant A History.

My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's Report Of Wrong And Outrage With Which Earth Is Filled.

Spring Hangs Her Infant Blossoms On The Trees, Rock'd In The Cradle Of The Western Breeze.

I Venerate The Man Whose Heart Is Warm, Whose Hands Are Pure, Whose Doctrine And Whose Life, Coincident, Exhibit Lucid Proof That He Is Honest In The Sacred Cause.