'tis Pleasant, Sure, To See One's Name

With Flowing Tail And Flying Mane, Wide Nostrils Never Stretched By Pain, Mouth Bloodless To Bit Or Rein, And Feet That Iron Never Shod, And Flanks Unscar'd By Spur Or Rod, A Thousand Horses - The Wild - The Free - Like Waves That Follow O'er The Sea, Came Thickly Thundering On.

'tis Solitude Should Teach Us How To Die; It Hath No Flatterers; Vanity Can Give, No Hollow Aid; Alone - Man With God Must Strive.

I Speak Not Of Men's Creeds—they Rest Between Man And His Maker.

A Sort Of Hostile Transaction, Very Necessary To Keep The World Going, But By No Means A Sinecure To The Parties Concerned.

Mont Blanc Is The Monarch Of Mountains; They Crown'd Him Long Ago On A Throne Of Rocks, In A Robe Of Clouds, With A Diadem Of Snow.