After All, It Is The Divinity Within

There Rise Authors Now And Then, Who Seem Proof Against The Mutability Of Language, Because They Have Rooted Themselves In The Unchanging Principles Of Human Nature.

The Moan Of The Whip-poor-will From The Hillside; The Boding Cry Of The Tree-toad, That Harbinger Of Storm; The Dreary Hooting Of The Screechowl.

There Are Moments Of Mingled Sorrow And Tenderness, Which Hallow The Caresses Of Affection.

Luxury Spreads Its Ample Board Before Their Eyes; But They Are Excluded From The Banquet. Plenty Revels Over The Fields; But Theyare Starving In The Midst Of Its Abundance: The Whole Wilderness Has Blossomed Into A Garden; But They Feel As Reptiles That Infest It.

The Only Happy Author In This World Is He Who Is Below The Care Of Reputation.