There Is A Power Whose Care Teaches

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

And At My Silent Window-sill The Jessamine Peeps In.

God Hath Yoked To Guilt Her Pale Tormentor,--misery.

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

And The Blue Gentian-flower, That, In The Breeze, Nods Lonely, Of Her Beauteous Race The Last.