Fear is the virtue of slaves; but the heart that loveth is willing.

In December ring Every day the chimes; Loud the gleemen sing In the streets their merry rhymes. Let us by the fire Ever higher Sing them till the night expire!

And in the wreck of noble lives Something immortal still survives.

Sit in reverie and watch the changing color of the waves that break upon the idle seashore of the mind.

Some critics are like chimney-sweepers; they put out the fire below, and frighten the swallows from their nests above; they scrape a long time in the chimney, cover themselves with soot, and bring nothing away but a bag of cinders, and then sing from the top of the house as if they had built it.

Autumn arrives like a warrior with the stain of blood upon his brazen mail. His crimson scarf is rent. His scarlet banner drips with gore. His step is like a flail upon the threshing floor.

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.