See yonder little cloud, that, borne aloft So tenderly by the wind, floats fast away Over the snowy peaks!

Were half the power that fills the world with terror, Were half the wealth bestowed on camps and courts, Given to redeem the human mind from error, There were no need of arsenals or forts.

The secret studies of an author are the sunken piers upon which is to rest the bridge of his fame, spanning the dark waters of oblivion. They are out of sight, but without them no superstructure can stand secure.

Some feelings are quite untranslatable; no language has yet been found for them. They gleam upon us beautifully through the dim twilight of fancy, and yet when we bring them close to us, and hold them up to the light of reason, lose their beauty all at once, as glow worms which gleam with such a spiritual light in the shadows of evening, when brought in where the candles are lighted, are found to be only worms like so many others.

Would you learn the secret of the sea? Only those who brave its dangers, comprehend its mystery!

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.

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