Remorse Is Virtue's Root; Its Fair Increase

Thou Who Wouldst See The Lovely And The Wild Mingled In Harmony On Nature's Face, Ascend Our Rocky Mountains. Let Thy Foot Fail Not With Weariness, For On Their Tops The Beauty And The Majesty Of Earth, Spread Wide Beneath, Shall Make Thee To Forget The Steep And Toilsome Way.

Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest Smile.

The Journalist Should Be On His Guard Against Publishing What Is False In Taste Or Exceptionable In Morals.

Do Not The Bright June Roses Blow To Meet Thy Kiss At Morning Hours?

Fairest Of All That Earth Beholds, The Hues That Live Among The Clouds, And Flush The Air, Lingering, And Deepening At The Hour Of Dews.