I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.

The stormy March has come at last, With winds and clouds and changing skies; I hear the rushing of the blast That through the snowy valley flies.

He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.