The Siren Waits Thee, Singing

As The Pearl Ripens In The Obscurity Of Its Shell, So Ripens In The Tomb All The Fame That Is Truly Precious.

Was Genius Ever Ungrateful? Mere Talents Are Dry Leaves, Tossed Up And Down By Gusts Of Passion, And Scattered And Swept Away; But, Genius Lies On The Bosom Of Memory, And Gratitude At Her Feet.

Ah What Avails The Sceptred Race, Ah What The Form Divine! What Every Virtue, Every Grace! Rose Aylmer, All Were Thine. Rose Aylmer, Whom These Wakeful Eyes May Weep, But Never See, A Night Of Memories And Of Sighs I Consecrate To Thee.

Belief In A Future Life Is The Appetite Of Reason.

Wrong Is But Falsehood Put In Practice.