Thoughts ... have tarried in my mind and peopled its inner chambers,

The sober children of reason, or desultory train of fancy.

Search out the wisdom of Nature, there is depth in all her doings.

Few and precious are the words which the lips of Wisdom utter:

To what shall their rarity be likened? What prices shall count their worth?

Perfect, and much to be desired, and giving joy with riches,

No lovely thing on earth can picture their fair beauty.

They be chance pearls, flung among the rocks by the sullen waters of Oblivion.

The sun of the mind, and the life of the heart is Wisdom.

She is pure and full of light, crowning grey hairs with lustre,

And kindling the eye of youth with a fire not its own.

Cease to anticipate misfortune--there are still many chances of escape.

Memory may be but a power of coming to the treasury of Fact,

A momentary self-desertion, an absence in spirit from the now,

An actual coursing hither and thither, by the mind, slipped from its leash,

A life, as in the mystery of dreams, spent within the limits of a moment.

There is not an enemy so stout, as to storm and take the fortress of the mind,

Unless its infirmity turn traitor, and Fear unbar the gates.

Error is a hardy plant: it flourisheth in every soil;

In the heart of the wise and good, alike with the wicked and foolish:

For there is no error so crooked, but it hath in it some lines of truth.

The choicest pleasures of life lie within the ring of moderation.

Contend not in wisdom with a fool, for thy sense maketh much of his conceit;

And some errors never would have thriven, had it not been for learned refutation.

Man liveth from hour to hour, and knoweth not what may happen;

Influences circle him on all sides, and yet must he answer for his actions:

For the being that is master of himself, bendeth events to his will,

But a slave to selfish passions is the wavering creature of circumstance.

There is not unmitigated ill in the sharpest of this world's sorrows;

I touch not the sore of thy guilt; but of human griefs I counsel thee,

Cast off the weakness of regret, and gird thee to redeem thy loss:

Thou has gained, in the furnace of affliction, self-knowledge, patience and humility,

And these be as precious ore, that waiteth the skill of the coiner:

Despise not the blessings of adversity, nor the gain thou hast earned so hardly,

And now thou hast drained the bitter, take heed that thou lose not the sweet.

For the strong magic of conception, mingled with the fumes of memory,

Giveth me a life in all past time, yea, and addeth substance to the future.

Humility is the softening shadow before the stature of Excellence,

And lieth lowly on the ground, beloved and lovely as the violet.

Deep is the sea, and deep is hell, but Pride mineth deeper;

It is coiled as a poisonous worm about the foundations of the soul.

On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God,

Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

A man too careful of danger liveth in continual torment,

But a cheerful expecter of the best hath a fountain of joy within him.

If thou wilt think evil of thy neighbour, soon shalt thou have him for thy foe.

Where thou perceivest knowledge, bend the ear of attention and respect;

But yield not further to the teaching, than as thy mind is warranted by reasons.

Better is an obstinant disputant, that yieldeth inch by inch,

Than the shallow traitor to himself, who surrendereth to half an argument.

Use meekness with discretion, casting not pearls before swine.

For a fool will tread upon thy neck, if he seeth the lying in the dust;

And there be companies and seasons where resolute bearing is but duty.

Memory is not wisdom; idiots can rote volumes.

Life is as the current spark on the miner's wheel of flints;

While it spinneth, there is light; stop it, all is darkness.

Law hath dominion over all things, over universal mind and matter;

For there are reciprocities of rights, which no creature can gainsay.

In the morning of life, before its wearisome journey,

The youthful soul doth expand, in the simple luxury of being;

It hath not contracted its wishes, nor set a limit on its hopes;

The wing of fancy is unclipped, and sin hath not seared the feelings:

Each feature is stamped with immortality, for all its desires are infinite,

And it seeketh an ocean of happiness, to fill the deep hollow within.

In a dream thou mayst live a lifetime, and all be forgotten in the morning:

Even such is life, and so soon perisheth its memory.

Society is a chain of obligations, and its links must support each other;

The branch cannot but wither, that is cut from the parent vine.

Madness hath imaginary bliss, and most men have no more.

Once more, in the matter of wealth: if thou throw thine all on a chance,

Men will come around thee, and wait, and watch the turning of the wheel;

And if, in the lottery of life, thou draw a splendid prize,

What foresight hadst thou, and skill! yea, what enterprize and wisdom!

But, if it fall out against thee, and thou fail in thy perilous endeavour,

Behold, the simple did sow, and hath reaped the right harvest of his folly.

And the world will be gladly excused, nor will reach out a finger to help;

For why should this speculative dullard be a whirlpool to all around him?

Go to, let him sink by himself: we knew what the end of it would be.

For the man hath missed his mark, and his fellows look no further.

Blunted unto goodness is the heart which anger never stirreth,

But that which hatred swelleth, is keen to carve out evil.

Age hath its quiet calm, and youth enjoyeth not for haste.

The valiant standeth as a rock, and the billows break upon him;

The timorous is a skiff unmoored, tossed and mocked at by a ripple:

The valiant holdeth fast to good, till evil wrench it from him;

The timorous casteth it aside to meet the worst halfway.

Hatred is the atmosphere of hell.

Sin is a black foil, but it setteth off the jewelry of heaven.

Happiness is a road-side flower, growing on the highways of Usefulness,

Plucked, it shall wither in thy hand; passed by, it is fragrance to thy spirit.

The wise man knoweth where to stop, as he runneth in the race of fortune,

For experience of old hath taught him, that happiness lingered midway;

And many in hot pursuit have hasted to the goal of wealth,

But have lost, as they ran, those apples of gold--the mind and the power to enjoy it.

Labour is good for a man, bracing up his energies to conquest,

And without it life is dull, the man perceiving himself useless.

Wealth hath never given happiness, but often hastened misery.

A wise man heedeth all things, and in his own eyes is a fool.

Thought paceth like a hoary sage, but imagination hath wings as an eagle.

The dog may have a spirit, as well as his brutal master:

A spirit to live in happiness; for why should he be robbed of his existence?

Hath he not a conscience of evil, a glimmer of moral sense,

Love and hatred, courage and fear, and visible shame and pride?

Spurn not at seeming error, but dig below its surface for the truth;

And beware of seeming truths that grow on the roots of error.

Wealth oft-times killeth, where want but hindered the budding.

There is evil poured upon the earth from the overflowings of corruption--

Sickness, and poverty, and pain, and guilt, and madness, and sorrow;

But, as the water from a fountain riseth and sinketh to its level,

Ceaselessly toileth justice to equalize the lots of men.

Love--what a volume in a word, an ocean in a tear,

A seventh heaven in a glance, a whirlwind in a sigh,

The lightning in a touch, a millennium in a moment,

What concentrated joy or woe in blest or blighted love!

For it is that native poetry springing up indigenous to Mind,

The heart's own-country music thrilling all its chords,

The story without an end that angels throng to hear,

The word, the king of words, carved on Jehovah's heart!

Ridicule is a weak weapon, when levelled at a strong mind;

But common men are cowards, and dread an empty laugh.

Praise a fool, and slay him; for the canvas of his vanity is spread;

His bark is shallow in the water, and a sudden gust shall sink it:

Praise a wise man, and speed him on his way; for he carrieth the ballast of humility,

And is glad when his course is cheered by the sympathy of brethren ashore.

Praise is rebuke to the man whose conscience alloweth it not.

Affect not to despise beauty: no one is freed from its dominion;

But regard it not a pearl of price--it is fleeting as the bow in the clouds.

An artful or false woman shall set thy pillow with thorns.

Yea, though the breath of disappointment should chill the sanguine heart,

Speedily gloweth it again, warmed by the live embers of hope.

Thou hast seen many sorrows, travel-stained pilgrim of the world,

But that which hath vexed thee most, hath been the looking for evil;

And thou calamities have crossed thee, and misery been heaped on thy head,

Yet ills that never happened, have chiefly made thee wretched.

The sting of pain and the edge of pleasure are blunted by long expectation,

For the gall and the balm alike are diluted by the waters of patience;

And often thou sippest sweetness, ere the cup is dashed from thy lip,

And drainest the gall of fear, while evil is passing by thy dwelling.

To the timid heart, to the child of unbelief and dread,

That leaneth on his own weak staff, and trusteth the sight of his eyes,

The evil he feared shall come, for the soil is ready for the seed.

Writing is eternal,

For therein the dead heart liveth, the clay-cold tongue is eloquent,

And the quick eye of the reader is cleared by the reed of the scribe.

As a fossil in the rock, or a coin in the mortar of a ruin,

So the symbolled thoughts tell of a departed soul:

The plastic hand hath its witness in a statue, and exactitude of vision in a picture,

And so, the mind, that was among us, in its writings is embalmed.

Confidence is conqueror of men; victorious both over them and in them;

The iron will of one stout heart shall make a thousand quail;

A feeble dwarf, dauntlessly resolved, will turn the tide of battle,

And rally to a nobler strife the giants that had fled.

Year after year, unto death; yea, what a weariness is it!

Labour, for the pale-faced scribe, drudging at his hated desk,

Who bartereth for needful pittance the untold gold of health;

Labour, with fear, for the merchant, whose hopes are ventured on the sea;

Labour, with care, for the man of law, responsible for his gains;

Labour, with envy and annoyance, where strangers will thee wealth;

Labour, with indolence and gloom, where wealth falleth from a father;

Labour, unto all, whether aching thews, or aching head, or spirit--

The curse on the sons of men, in all their states, is labour.

Nevertheless, to the diligent, labour bringeth blessing:

The thought of duty sweeteneth toil, and travail is as pleasure;

And time spent in doing, hath a comfort that is not for the idle.