The Way Was Long, The Wind Was

High Minds, Of Native Pride And Force, Most Deeply Feel Thy Pangs, Remorse; Fear, For Their Scourge, Means Villains Have, Thou Art The Torturer Of The Brave!

You Will, I Trust, Resemble A Forest Plant, Which Has Indeed, By Some Accident, Been Brought Up In The Greenhouse, And Thus Rendered Delicate And Effeminate, But Which Regains Its Native Firmness And Tenacity, When Exposed For A Season To The Winter Air.

I Will Suppose That You Have No Friends To Share Or Rejoice In Your Success In Life — That You Cannot Look Back To Those To Whom You Owe Gratitude, Or Forward To Those To Whom You Ought To Afford Protection; But It Is No Less Incumbent On You To Move Steadily In The Path Of Duty — For Your Active Exertions Are Due Not Only To Society, But In Humble Titude To The Being Who Made You A Member Of It, With Powers To Serve Yourself And Others.

O! Many A Shaft, At Random Sent, Finds Mark The Archer Little Meant! And Many A Word, At Random Spoken, May Soothe Or Wound A Heart That's Broken!

Many Of Our Cares Are But A Morbid Way Of Looking At Our Privileges