The Grave Itself Is But A Covered

The Country Is Not Priest-ridded, But Press-ridden.

Intelligence And Courtesy Not Always Are Combined; Often In A Wooden House A Golden Room We Find.

Under A Spreading Chestnut-tree The Village Smithy Stands; The Smith, A Mighty Man Is He, With Large And Sinewy Hands; And The Muscles Of His Brawny Arms Are Strong As Iron Bands.

Sometimes We May Learn More From A Man's Errors, Than From His Virtues.

Not Enjoyment, And Not Sorrow, Is Our Destined End Or Way; But To Act, That Each Tomorrow Find Us Farther Than Today.