As To Posterity, I May

If The Best Man's Faults Were Written On His Forehead, He Would Draw His Hat Over His Eyes.

Chill Penury Repress'd Their Noble Rage, And Froze The Genial Current Of The Soul.

Fair Laughs The Morn, And Soft The Zephyr Blows, While Proudly Rising O'er The Azure Realm In Gallant Trim The Gilded Vessel Goes, Youth On The Prow, And Pleasure At The Helm.

The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

Each In His Narrow Cell Forever Laid, The Rude Forefathers Of The Hamlet Sleep.