W. C. Bryant.
Give credit to thy mortal brother’s heart
For all the good that in thine own hath part.
Mrs. Norton.
Never despair of goodness. Men are bad,
But have been worse. The badness shall die out,
The goodness, like the thistle-down, shall float,
Bearing a germ beneath its tiny car—
A germ predestined to become a tree,
To fall on fruitful soil, and on its boughs