Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

Error's Monstrous Shapes From Earth Are Driven They Fade, They Fly--but Truth Survives The Flight.

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.

Hark To That Shrill, Sudden Shout, The Cry Of An Applauding Multitude, Swayed By Some Loud-voiced Orator Who Wields The Living Mass As If He Were Its Soul!

War, Like All Other Situations Of Danger And Of Change, Calls Forth The Exertion Of Admirable Intellectual Qualities And Great Virtues, And It Is Only By Dwelling On These, And Keeping Out Of Sight The Sufferings And Sorrows, And All The Crimes And Evils That Follow In Its Train, That It Has Its Glory In The Eyes Of Men.

So Live, That When Thy Summons Comes To Join, The Innumerable Caravan Which Moves, To That Mysterious Realm Where Each Shall Take, His Chamber In The Silent Halls Of Death, Thou Go Not, Like The Quarry-slave At Night, Scourged By His Dungeon, But, Sustained And Soothed, By An Unfaltering Trust, Approach Thy Grave, Like One Who Wraps The Drapery Of His Couch, About Him, And Lies Down To Pleasant Dreams.