I Have Great Hopes That We Shall

I Am The Very Slave Of Circumstance And Impulse Borne Away With Every Breath! Misplaced Upon The Throne Misplaced In Life. I Know Not What I Could Have Been, But Feel I Am Not What I Should Be Let It End.

O Thou Beautiful And Unimaginable Ether! And Ye Multiplying Masses Of Increased And Still Increasing Lights! What Are Ye? What Is This Blue Wilderness Of Interminable Air, Where Ye Roll Along, As I Have Seen The Leaves Along The Limpid Streams Of Eden? Is Your Course Measur'd For Ye? Or Do Ye Sweep On In Your Unbounded Revelry Through An Aerial Universe Of Endless Expansion,--at Which My Soul Aches To Think,-- Intoxicated With Eternity.

Farewell! If Ever Fondest Prayer For Other's Weal Avail'd On High, Mine Will Not All Be Lost In Air, But Waft Thy Name Beyond The Sky.

Bologna Is Celebrated For Producing Popes, Painters, And Sausage.

War, War Is Still The Cry,-"war Even To The Knife!"