The thundering voice that wrings, in one dark, damning moment, crimes of years!

Green sods are all their monument; and yet it tells A nobler history than pillared piles, Or the eternal pyramids.

Sweet flower, thou tellest how hearts as pure and tender as thy leaf, as low and humble as thy stem, will surely know the joy that peace imparts.

How awful is that hour when con, science stings.

I am one who finds within me a nobility that spurns the idle pratings of the great, and their mean boasts of what their fathers were, while they themselves are fools effeminate.

Night steals on; and the day takes its farewell, like the words of a departing friend, or the last tone of hallowed music in a minister's aisles, heard when it floats along the shade of elms, in the still place of graves.

The thundering voice that wrings, in one dark, damning moment, crimes of years!