All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.
The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.
Flowers spring up unsown and die ungathered.
Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
But ’neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.
A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
The groves were God’s first temples.
Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear.
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson, Yet our full-leaved willows are in the freshest green. Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing With the growths of summer, I never yet have seen.
Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
Christ taught an astonishing thing about physical death: not merely that it is an experience robbed of its terror but that as an experience it does not exist at all. To “sleep in Christ,” like one that wraps the drapery of his couch about him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment; wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.