Men! whose boast it is that ye Come of fathers brave and free, If there breathe on earth a slave, Are ye truly free and brave?

There comes Emerson first, whose rich words, every one, Are like gold nails in temples to hang trophies on.

Granting our wish is one of Fate's saddest jokes.

Moral supremacy is the only one that leaves monuments, and not ruins, behind it.

He gives us the very quintessence of perception,-the clearly crystalized precipitation of all that is most precious in the ferment of impression after the impertinent and obtrusive particulars have evaporated from the memory.

Hush! Still as death, The tempest holds his breath As from a sudden will; The rain stops short, but from the eaves You see it drop, and hear it from the leaves, All is so bodingly still.

I willingly confess to so great a partiality for trees as tempts me to respect a man in exact proportion to his respect for them.