'T is a little thing To give a cup of water; yet its draught Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips, May give a shock of pleasure to the frame More exquisite than when nectarean juice Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.

So his life has flowed From its mysterious urn a sacred stream, In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure Alone are mirrored; which, though shapes of ill May …

Fill the seats of justice With good men, not so absolute in goodness As to forget what human frailty is.

In ourselves In our own honest hearts and chainless hands Will be our safeguard: