Hence, In These Times, Untouch'd The Pages

A Club There Is Of Smokers--dare You Come To That Close, Clouded, Hot, Narcotic Room? When, Midnight Past, The Very Candles Seem Dying For Air, And Give A Ghastly Gleam; When Curling Fumes In Lazy Wreaths Arise, And Prosing Topers Rub Their Winking Eyes.

Men Famed For Wit, Of Dangerous Talents Vain, Treat Those Of Common Parts With Proud Disdain; The Powers That Wisdom Would, Improving, Hide, They Blaze Abroad, With Inconsid'rate Pride; While Yet But Mere Probationers For Fame, They Seize The Honor They Should Then Disclaim: Honor So Hurried To The Light Must Fade, The Lasting Laurels Nourish In The Shade.

Genius! Thou Gift Of Heav'n! Thou Light Divine! Amid What Dangers Art Thou Doom'd To Shine! Oft Will The Body's Weakness Check Thy Force, Oft Damp Thy Vigour, And Impede Thy Course; And Trembling Nerves Compel Thee To Restrain Thy Noble Efforts, To Contend With Pain; Or Want (sad Guest!) Will In Thy Presence Come, And Breathe Around Her Melancholy Gloom: To Life's Low Cares Will Thy Proud Thought Confine, And Make Her Sufferings, Her Impatience, Thine.

The Game Is Never Lost Till Won.

Feed The Musician, And He's Out Of Tune.