A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.

The groves were God's first temples.

Sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.

Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.

Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.