The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

We Frolic While 'tis May.

I Shall Be But A Shrimp Of An Author.

The Boast Of Heraldry, The Pomp Of Pow'r, And All That Beauty, All That Wealth E'er Gave, Awaits Alike Th' Inevitable Hour. The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

To Contemplation's Sober Eye, Such Is The Race Of Man; And They That Creep, And They That Fly, Shall End Where They Began, Alike The Busy And The Gay, But Flutter Through Life's Little Day.

To Contemplation's Sober Eye. / Such Is The Race Of Man.