Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

That Make The Meadows Green; And, Poured Round All, Old Ocean's Gray And Melancholy Waste,-- Are But The Solemn Decorations All Of The Great Tomb Of Man.

Features, The Great Soul's Apparent Seat.

The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign; And After Dreams Of Horror, Comes Again The Welcome Morning With Its Rays Of Peace.

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.

The Groves Were God's First Temple. Ere Man Learned To Hew The Shaft, And Lay The Architrave, And Spread The Roof Above Them,--ere He Framed The Lofty Vault, To Gather And Roll Back The Sound Of Anthems; In The Darkling Wood, Amidst The Cool And Silence, He Knelt Down And Offered To The Mightiest Solemn Thanks And Supplication.