A Preface Is A Species Of Literary

Youth Is A Season That Has No Repose.

How Beautiful, How Buoyant, And Glad Is Morning!

A Friend Is Never Alarmed For Us In The Right Place.

A Blossom Full Of Promise Is Life's Joy, That Never Comes To Fruit. Hope, For A Time, Suns The Young Floweret In Its Gladsome Light, And It Looks Flourishing--a Little While-- 't Is Pass'd, We Know Not Whither, But 't Is Gone.

Oh, No! My Heart Can Never Be Again In Lightest Hopes The Same; The Love That Lingers There For Thee Hath More Of Ashes Than Of Flame.