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.

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

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

The birch-bark canoe of the savage seems to me one of the most beautiful and perfect things of the kind constructed by human art.

Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -

Truth gets well if she is run over by a locomotive, while error dies of lockjaw if she scratches her finger.