Virtue Could See To Do What Virtue

And The Earth Self-balanced On Her Centre Hung.

He Who Destroys A Good Book Kills Reason Itself.

Fame Is No Plant That Grows On Mortal Soil.

Cedar, And Pine, And Fir, And Branching Palm, A Sylvan Scene, And As The Ranks Ascend Shade Above Shade, A Woody Theatre Of Stateliest View.

The Conquer'd, Also, And Enslaved By War, Shall, With Their Freedom Lost, All Virtue Lose.