This above all, to thine own self be true;
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Shakspeare.
What is truth?—a staff rejected.
Wordsworth.
It is a weary and a bitter task
Back from the lip the burning word to keep,
And to shut out heaven’s air with falsehood’s mask,
And in the dark urn of the soul to heap
Indignant feelings—making e’en of thought
A buried treasure.
The Sweet Flag—Acorus Calamus.... Grace.
One autumn eve I sat alone
Beside my study fire;
I’d written long, and eyes and head
And fingers ’gan to tire.
I rose to shut my desk, and go—
Quite weary—half asleep—
A book fell open as I moved;
E’en sleepy eyes must peep;
And, pictured on its page, I saw
The portrait of a friend,
Whose smiling face bade my dull thoughts
To happy memories wend.