A man will grow to an automaton, an appendage to the counter or the desk,
If mind and spirit be not roused, to raise the plodding groveller:
Then praise God for sabbaths, for books, and dreams, and pains,
For the recreative face of nature, and the kindling charities of home;
And remember, thou that labourest,—thy leisure is not loss,
If it help to expose and undermine that solid falsehood, the Material.
Life is a strange avenue of various trees and flowers;
Lightsome at commencement, but darkening to its end, in a distant massy portal.
It beginneth as a little path, edged with the violet and primrose,