The Groves Were God's First Temples.

Thine Eyes Are Springs In Whose Serene And Silent Waters Heaven Is Seen. Their Lashes Are The Herbs That Look On Their Young Figures In The Brook.

The Rugged Trees Are Mingling Their Flowery Sprays In Love; The Ivy Climbs The Laurel To Clasp The Boughs Above.

Yet Will That Beauteous Image Make The Dreary Sea Less Drear And Thy Remembered Smile Will Wake The Hope That Tramples Fear

The Victory Of Endurance Born.

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