Thus Aged Men, Full Loth And Slow,

Breathes There The Man, With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land! Whose Heart Hath Ne'er Within Him Burn'd, As Home His Footsteps He Hath Turn'd From Wandering On A Foreign Strand! If Such There Breathe, Go Mark Him Well; For Him No Minstrel Raptures Swell; High Though His Titles, Proud His Name, Boundless His Wealth As Wish Can Claim; Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.

I Have Sometimes Thought Of The Final Cause Of Dogs Having Such Short Lives And I Am Quite Satisfied It Is In Compassion To The Human Race; For If We Suffer So Much In Losing A Dog After An Acquaintance Of Ten Or Twelve Years, What Would It Be If They Were To Live Double That Time?

A Ruin Should Always Be Protected But Never Repaired - Thus May We Witness Full The Lingering Legacies Of The Past.

O! Many A Shaft, At Random Sent, Finds Mark The Archer Little Meant! And Many A Word, At Random Spoken, May Soothe Or Wound A Heart That's Broken!

Threatened Folk Live Long.