All That Tread, The Globe Are But

Here The Free Spirit Of Mankind, At Length, Throws Its Last Fetters Off; And Who Shall Place A Limit To The Giant's Unchained Strength, Or Curb His Swiftness In The Forward Race?

Remorse Is Virtue's Root; Its Fair Increase Is Fruits Of Innocence And Blessedness.

Difficulty Is The Nurse Of Greatness.

I Hear The Howl Of The Wind That Brings The Long Drear Storm On Its Heavy Wings.

That Make The Meadows Green; And, Poured Round All, Old Ocean's Gray And Melancholy Waste,-- Are But The Solemn Decorations All Of The Great Tomb Of Man.