Detested Sport, That Owes Its Pleasures To

The Only Amarantine Flower On Earth Is Virtue.

How Soft The Music Of Those Village Bells, Falling At Interval Upon The Ear In Cadence Sweet; Now Dying All Away, Now Pealing Loud Again, And Louder Still, Clear And Sonorous, As The Gale Comes On! With Easy Force It Opens All The Cells Where Memory Slept.

Men Deal With Life As Children With Their Play, Who First Misuse, Then Cast Their Toys Away.

Forgot The Blush That Virgin Fears Impart To Modest Cheeks, And Borrowed One From Art.

There Is Mercy In Every Place. And Mercy, Encouraging Thought Gives Even Affliction A Grace And Reconciles Man To His Lot.