This Is The Curse Of

Virtue, Though Clothed In A Beggar's Garb, Commands Respect.

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.

Courage, Ne'er By Sorrow Broken! Aid Where Tears Of Virtue Flow; Faith To Keep Each Promise Spoken! Truth Alike To Friend And Foe!

A Gloomy Guest Fits Not A Wedding Feast.

Appearance Should Never Attain Reality, And If Nature Conquers, Then Must Art Retire.