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Busts of brass and alabaster, pillars of granite and basalt, columns of porphyry and marble yield to the tooth of time. In the palaces of nature even, the vast domes and cupolas, the towering peaks and rugged crags, fashioned by subterranean fires or cleft by rushing torrents and polished by the sweep of winds, fall victims to decay. Men's spirit only lives. Its product, be it the thoughtful measure or the kindly deed, the word of wisdom or the noble sacrifice of self and substance on the altar to the common good, is never lost. Cast upon the broad bosom of the ever-surging sea of humanity, deep-running currents, whose secret courses the subtlety of human reason cannot fathom, carry it far and wide, into the habitations of the lowly and to the mansions of the great. Sometimes a man is spared to see it return after its first circuit, enriched by the homage of the grateful and the tribute of the just; oftener, Time, measured by the stately march of stars, has conquered him. Fate in its irony and wisdom has denied him that gratification and silenced his senses. Then, when he is resting in his grave, perhaps after a long journey over the thorn-studded path of disappointments, and the tombstone has solemnly mounted its lonely guard to warn off with silent, majestic and awe-inspiring gesture the noisy clamor of petty jealousies and strife, then the fields and gardens are ransacked for their blossoms and a wealth of fragrance is lavishly shed about the grave; then men will rise and outvie each other to do honor to the memory
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