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“Death has no power the immortal soul to slay, That, when its present body turns to clay, Seeks a fresh home, and with unlessened might Inspires another frame with life and light.” Like moonbeams trembling on water, truly such is the life of mortals. Knowing this, let duty be performed. Bathe in the river of the soul, O man, for not with water is the soul washed clean. The pure soul is a river whose holy source is self-control, whose water is truth, whose bank is righteousness, whose waves are compassion. The spirit it is, that, under the myriad illusions of life, works steadily towards its goal; silently, imperceptibly, irresistibly, moving on to divinity.
