Men! Whose Boast It Is That Ye

Praise Follows Truth Afar Off, And Only Overtakes Her At The Grave; Plausibility Clings To Her Skirts And Holds Her Back Till Then

Now The Heart Is So Full That A Drop Overfills It; We Are Happy Now Because God Wills It.

Through Aisles Of Long-drawn Centuries My Spirit Walks In Thought.

Truth Only Needs To Be For Once Spoken Out; And There's Such Music In Her, Such Strange Rhythm, As Makes Men's Memories Her Joyous Slaves.

Pride Of Origin, Whether High Or Low, Springs From The Same Principle In Human Nature; One Is But The Positive, The Other The Negative, Pole Of A Single Weakness.