But How Is The Artist To Protect

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

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.

Art Is The Right Hand Of Nature. The Latter Has Only Given Us Being, The Former Has Made Us Men.

Egotism Erects Its Center In Itself; Love Places It Out Of Itself In The Axis Of The Universal Whole. Love Aims At Unity, Egotism At Solitude. Love Is The Citizen Ruler Of A Flourishing Republic, Egotism Is A Despot In A Devastated Creation. Egotism Sows For Gratitude, Love For The Ungrateful. Love Gives, Egotism Lends; And Love Does This Before The Throne Of Judicial Truth, Indifferent If For The Enjoyment Of The Following Moment, Or With The View To A Martyr's Crown--indifferent Whether The Reward Is In This Life Or In The Next.

To Save All We Must Risk All.