The Hushed Winds Their Sabbath Keep.

All That Tread, The Globe Are But A Handful To The Tribes, That Slumber In Its Bosom.

Difficulty Is The Nurse Of Greatness.

There Is No Glory In Star Or Blossom Till Looked Upon By A Loving Eye; There Is No Fragrance In April Breezes Till Breathed With Joy As They Wander By.

And The Blue Gentian-flower, That, In The Breeze, Nods Lonely, Of Her Beauteous Race The Last.

And We Wept That One So Lovely Should Have A Life So Brief.