That Power Which Erring Men Call Chance.

Farewell Happy Fields, Where Joy Forever Dwells: Hail, Horrors, Hail.

Fame Is No Plant That Grows On Mortal Soil.

Avenge, O Lord, Thy Slaughtered Saints, Whose Bones Lie Scattered On The Alpine Mountains Cold; Ev'n Them Who Kept Thy Truth So Pure Of Old When All Our Fathers Worshipped Stocks And Stones Forget Not.

The Work Under Our Labour Grows, Luxurious By Restraint.

There Is Nothing That Making Men Rich And Strong But That Which They Carry Inside Of Them. True Wealth Is Of The Heart, Not Of The Hand.