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

Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.

The moon is at her full, and riding high, Floods the calm fields with light. The airs that hover in the summer sky Are all asleep to-night.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.

The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.

The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyone the sculpted flower.

Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go; the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.