Still From The Sire The Son Shall

Hard Toil Can Roughen Form And Face, And Want Call Quench The Eye's Bright Grace.

For Deadly Fear Can Time Outgo, And Blanch At Once The Hair.

We Are Like The Herb Which Flourisheth Most When It Is Most Trampled On.

Well, Then--our Course Is Chosen--spread The Sail-- Heave Oft The Lead, And Mark The Soundings Well-- Look To The Helm, Good Master--many A Shoal Marks This Stern Coast, And Rocks, Where Sits The Siren Who, Like Ambition, Lures Men To Their Ruin.

The Misery Of Keeping A Dog Is His Dying So Soon. But, To Be Sure, If He Lived For Fifty Years And Then Died, What Would Become Of Me?