How bless'd the heart that has a friend. A sympathizing ear to lend.

Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war's alarms, But a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.

Boughs are daily rifled By the gusty thieves, And the book of Nature Getteth short of leaves.

Experience enables me to depose to the comfort and blessing that literature can prove in seasons of sickness and sorrow.

There is a silence where hath been no sound, There is a silence where no sound may be,- In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea, Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

The Autumn is old; The sere leaves are flying; He hath gather'd up gold, And now he is dying;- Old age, begin sighing!

But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!