I Will But Confess The Sins Of

Well, Then--our Course Is Chosen--spread The Sail-- Heave Oft The Lead, And Mark The Soundings Well-- Look To The Helm, Good Master--many A Shoal Marks This Stern Coast, And Rocks, Where Sits The Siren Who, Like Ambition, Lures Men To Their Ruin.

Mankind — The Race Would Perish Did They Cease To Aid Each Other.

The Chain Of Friendship, However Bright, Does Not Stand The Attrition Of Constant Close Contact.

Call It Not Vain: They Do Not Err Who Say That When The Poet Dies Mute Nature Mourns Her Worshipper, And Celebrates His Obsequies.

Respect Was Mingled With Surprise, And The Stern Joy Which Warriors Feel In Foemen Worthy Of Their Steel.