Steady Of Heart And Stout

No Scene Of Mortal Life But Teems With Mortal Woe.

Guilt, Though It May Attain Temporal Splendor, Can Never Confer Real Happiness; The Evil Consequences Of Our Crimes Long Survive Their Commission, And, Like The Ghosts Of The Murdered, Forever Haunt The Steps Of The Malefactor; While The Paths Of Virtue, Though Seldom Those Of Worldly Greatness, Are Always Those Of Pleasantness And Peace.

Love, To Her Ear, Was But A Name, Combin'd With Vanity And Shame; Her Hopes, Her Fears, Her Joys, Were All Bounded Within The Cloister Wall.

In Peace, Love Tunes The Shepherd's Reed; In War, He Mounts The Warrior's Steed; In Halls, In Gay Attire Is Seen; In Hamlets, Dances On The Green. Love Rules The Court, The Camp, The Grove, And Men Below, And Saints Above; For Love Is Heaven, And Heaven Is Love.

One Hour Of Life, Crowded To The Full With Glorious Action, And Filled With Noble Risks, Is Worth Whole Years Of Those Mean Observances Of Paltry Decorum, In Which Men Steal Through Existence, Like Sluggish Waters Through A Marsh, Without Either Honor Or Observation.