To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.

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

All great poets have been men of great knowledge.

The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.

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 journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.

Follow thou thy choice.