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

Critics are sentinels in the grand army of letters, stationed at the corners of newspapers and reviews, to challenge every new author.

It was Autumn, and incessant Piped the quails from shocks and sheaves, And, like living coals, the apples Burned among the withering leaves.

Every man has his secret sorrows which the world knows not; and often times we call a man cold when he is only sad.

Through woods and mountain passes The winds, like anthems, roll.

Softly the evening came. The sun from the western horizon Like a magician extended his golden want o'er the landscape; Trinkling vapors arose; and sky and water and forest Seemed all on fire at the touch, and melted and mingled together.

People demand freedom only when they have no power.