To Him Who In The Love Of

The Summer Day Is Closed - The Sun Is Set: Well They Have Done Their Office, Those Bright Hours, The Latest Of Whose Train Goes Softly Out In The Red West. The Green Blade Of The Ground Has Risen, And Herds Have Cropped It; The Young Twig Has Spread Its Plaited Tissues To The Sun; Flowers Of The Garden And The Waste Have Blown And Withered; Seeds Have Fallen Upon The Soil, From Bursting Cells, And In Their Graves Await Their Resurrection. Insects From The Pools Have Filled The Air Awhile With Humming Wings, That Now Are Still For Ever; Painted Moths Have Wandered The Blue Sky, And Died Again

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

All That Tread, The Globe Are But A Handful To The Tribes, That Slumber In Its Bosom.

A Melancholy Sound Is In The Air, A Deep Sigh In The Distance, A Shrill Wail Around My Dwelling. 'tis The Wind Of Night.

Genius, With All Its Pride In Its Own Strength, Is But A Dependent Quality, And Cannot Put Forth Its Whole Powers Nor Claim All Its Honors Without An Amount Of Aid From The Talents And Labors Of Others Which It Is Difficult To Calculate.