And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.

Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.

The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.

Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.