Man Is One; And He

Music Tells No Truths.

Leave The Poor Some Time For Self-improvement. Let Them Not Be Forced To Grind The Bones Out Of Their Arms For Bread, But Have Some Space To Think And Feel Like Moral And Immortal Creatures.

Obey Thy Genius, For A Minister It Is Unto The Throne Of Fate. Draw To Thy Soul, And Centralize The Rays Which Are Around Of The Divinity.

Look On The Bee Upon The Wing 'mong Flowers; How Brave, How Bright His Life! Then Mark, Him Hiv'd, Cramp'd, Cringing In His Self-built, Social Cell, Thus It Is In The World-hive; Most Where Men Lie Deep In Cities As In Drifts.

Let Us Think Less Of Men And More Of God.