They are dead; but they live in each Patriot's breast, And their names are engraven on honor's bright crest.

The Helicon of too many poets is not a hill crowned with sunshine and visited by the Muses and the Graces, but an old, mouldering house, full of gloom and haunted by ghosts.

As to the pure mind all things are pure, so to the poetic mind all things are poetical.

The atmosphere breathes rest and comfort, and the many chambers seem full of welcomes.

Time, like a preacher in the days of the Puritans, turned the hour-glass on his high pulpit, the church belfry.

What is time? The shadow on the dial, the striking of the clock, the running of the sand, day and night, summer and winter, months, years, centuries-these are but arbitrary and outward signs, the measure of Time, not Time itself. Time is the Life of the Soul.

Simplicity is the character of the spring of life, costliness becomes its autumn; but a neatness and purity, like that of the snow-drop or lily of the valley, is the peculiar fascination of beauty, to which it lends enchantment, and gives what amiability is to the mind.