If One's Conscience Be Dead As A

There Are Daily Martyrdoms Occurring Of More Or Less Self-abnegation, And Of Which The World Knows Nothing.

Those Old Ages Are Like The Landscape That Shows Best In Purple Distance, All Verdant And Smooth, And Bathed In Mellow Light.

Impatience Dries The Blood Sooner Than Age Or Sorrow.

Through Every Rift Of Discovery Some Seeming Anomaly Drops Out Of The Darkness, And Falls, As A Golden Link Into The Great Chain Of Order.

The Church-bells Of Innumerable Sects Are All Chime-bells To-day, Ringing In Sweet Accordance Throughout Many Lands, And Awaking A Great Joy In The Heart Of Our Common Humanity.