We Of The Craft Are All Crazy.

They Never Fail Who Die In A Great Cause.

The Waves Were Dead; The Tides Were In Their Grave, The Moon, Their Mistress, Had Expir'd Before; The Winds Were Wither'd In The Stagnant Air, And The Clouds Perish'd; Darkness Had No Need Of Aid From Them-she Was The Universe.

Sorrow Preys Upon Its Solitude, And Nothing More Diverts It From Its Sad Visions Of The Other World Than Calling It At Moments Back To This. The Busy Have No Time For Tears.

And If I Laugh At Any Mortal Thing, 'tis That I May Not Weep.

Muse Of The Many Twinkling Feet, Whose Charms Are Now Extending Up From Legs To Arms.