Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself

Good, The More Communicated, More Abundant Grows.

So Dear I Love Him, That With Him, All Deaths I Could Endure, Without Him, Live No Life.

Fame Is The Spur That The Clear Spirit Doth Raise

From Morn To Noon He Fell, From Noon To Dewy Eve,- A Summer's Day; And With The Setting Sun Dropp'd From The Zenith Like A Falling Star.

Who Kills A Man Kills A Reasonable Creature, God's Image; But He Who Destroys A Good Book, Kills Reason Itself, Kills The Image Of God, As It Were, In The Eye.