And when the echoes had ceased, like a sense of pain was the silence.

Let him not boast who puts his armor on as he who puts it off, the battle done.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.

Midnight! the outpost of advancing day! The frontier town and citadel of night!

Sunday is the golden clasp that binds together the volume of the week.

I feel a kind of reverence for the first books of young authors. There is so much aspiration in them, so much audacious hope and trembling fear, so much of the heart's history, that all errors and shortcomings are for a while lost sight of in the amiable self assertion of youth.

Enjoy the Spring of Love and Youth, to some good angel leave the rest; For Time will teach thee soon the truth, there are no birds in last year's nest!