Books Are Not Seldom Talismans And Spells.

Time, As He Passes Us, Has A Dove's Wing, Unsoil'd, And Swift, And Of A Silken Sound.

Religion, Richest Favor Of The Skies.

No Traveler E'er Reached That Blest Abode Who Found Not Thorns And Briers In His Road.

Glory, Built On Selfish Principles, Is Shame And Guilt.

Knowledge, A Rude Unprofitable Mass, The Mere Materials With Which Wisdom Builds, Till Smoothed And Squared And Fitted To Its Place, Does But Encumber Whom It Seems To Enrich. Knowledge Is Proud That He Has Learned So Much; Wisdom Is Humble That He Knows No More.