There is pleasure in the pathless woods.

This is the patent age of new inventions for killing bodies, and for saving souls. All propagated with the best intentions.

As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep's serene.

Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.

Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.

And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!

I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.