Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

How does the Meadow flower its bloom unfold? Because the lovely little flower is free down to its root, and in that freedom bold.