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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
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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.
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But Winter has yet brighter scenes-he boasts Splendors beyond what gorgeous Summer knows Or Autumn with his many fruits, and woods All flushed with many hues.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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All great poets have been men of great knowledge.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
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Gently - so have good men taught - Gently, and without grief, the old shall glide Into the new the eternal flow of things, Like a bright river of the fields of heaven, Shall journey onward in perpetual peace.
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The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favourite phantom yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come, And make their bed with thee.
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Is not thy home among the flowers?
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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Here the free spirit of mankind, at length, Throws its last fetters off and who shall place A limit to the giant's unchained strength, Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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Error's monstrous shapes from earth are driven They fade, they fly--but truth survives the flight.
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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.
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When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.
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The sad and solemn night hath yet her multitude of cheerful fires The glorious host of light walk the dark hemisphere till she retires All through her silent watches, gliding slow, Her constellations come, and climb the heavens, and go.
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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