It Is Lucifer, The Son Of Mystery;

The Star Of The Unconquered Will, He Rises In My Breast, Serene, And Resolute, And Still, And Calm, And Self-possessed.

The Rays Of Happiness, Like Those Of Light, Are Colorless When Unbroken.

It Is The Heart And Not The Brain, That To The Highest Doth Attain.

The Morning Pouring Everywhere, Its Golden Glory On The Air.

The Motives And Purposes Of Authors Are Not Always So Pure And High, As, In The Enthusiasm Of Youth, We Sometimes Imagine. To Many The Trumpet Of Fame Is Nothing But A Tin Horn To Call Them Home, Like Laborers From, The Field, At Dinner-time, And They Think Themselves Lucky To Get The Dinner.