Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.

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

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

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

The groves were God's first temples.

These struggling tides of life that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.