Spangling The Wave With Lights

Honour Is A Homicide And A Bloodspiller, That Gangs About Making Frays In The Street; But Credit Is A Decent Honest Man, That Sits At Hame And Makes The Pat Play.

The Way Was Long, The Wind Was Cold, The Minstrel Was Infirm And Old; His Withered Cheek, And Tresses Gray, Seemed To Have Know A Better Day.

Within That Awful Volume Lies The Mystery Of Mysteries!

On His Bold Visage Middle Age Had Slightly Press'd Its Signet Sage, Yet Had Not Quench'd The Open Truth And Fiery Vehemence Of Youth: Forward And Frolic Glee Was There, The Will To Do, The Soul To Dare.

Every Hour Has Its End.