GOLD, NOT GENUINE WEALTH.

  Where, thy true treasure?  Gold says, “not in me;”
  And, “not in me,” the Diamond.  Gold is poor.

TRANSPOSED.

Where is thy true treasure?  Gold says, “It is not in me;” and the
Diamond says, “It is not in me.”  Gold is poor.

SOURCE OF FRIENDSHIP.—­DR. YOUNG.

  Lorenzo, pride repress; nor hope to find
  A friend, but what has found a friend in thee.

TRANSPOSED.

Lorenzo, repress thou pride; nor hope thou to find a friend, only in him who has already found a friend in thee.

TRUE GREATNESS.—­POPE.

  Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
  Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains,
  Like good Aurelius let him reign, or bleed
  Like Socrates, that man is great indeed.

TRANSPOSED.

That man is great indeed, let him to reign like unto good Aurelius, or let him to bleed like unto Socrates, who obtains noble ends by noble means; or that man is great indeed, who, failing to obtain noble ends by noble means, smiles in exile or in chains.

INVOCATION.—­POLLOK.

  Eternal Spirit!  God of truth! to whom
  All things seem as they are, inspire my song;
  My eye unscale:  me what is substance teach;
  And shadow what, while I of things to come,
  As past rehearsing, sing.  Me thought and phrase
  Severely sifting out the whole idea, grant.

TRANSPOSED.

Eternal Spirit!  God of truth! to whom all things seem to be as they really are, inspire thou my song; and unscale thou my eyes:  teach thou to me the thing which is substance; and teach thou to me the thing which is shadow, while I sing of things which are to come, as one sings of things which are past rehearsing.  Grant thou to me thought and phraseology which shall severely sift out the whole idea.

THE VOYAGE OF LIFE.

  How few, favored by ev’ry element,
  With swelling sails make good the promised port,
  With all their wishes freighted!  Yet ev’n these,
  Freighted with all their wishes, soon complain. 
  Free from misfortune, not from nature free,
  They still are men; and when is man secure? 
  As fatal time, as storm.  The rush of years
  Beats down their strength; their numberless escapes
  In ruin end:  and, now, their proud success
  But plants new terrors on the victor’s brow. 
  What pain, to quit the world just made their own! 
  Their nests so deeply downed and built so high!—­
  Too low they build, who build beneath the stars.

TRANSPOSED.