Over No Nation Does The Press Hold

There Is In Every True Woman's Heart, A Spark Of Heavenly Fire, Which Lies Dormant In The Broad Daylight Of Prosperity, But Which Kindles Up And Beams And Blazes In The Dark Hour Of Adversity.

It Is Not Poverty So Much As Pretense That Harasses A Ruined Man.

The Land Of Literature Is A Fairy Land To Those Who View It At A Distance, But, Like All Other Landscapes, The Charm Fades On A Nearer Approach, And The Thorns And Briars Become Visible.

Poetry Is Evidently A Contagious Complaint.

It Is Almost Startling To Hear This Warning Of Departed Time Sounding Among The Tombs, And Telling The Lapse Of The Hour, Which, Like A Billow, Has Rolled Us Onward Towards The Grave.