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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
Reign
Slaves
Tyrants
Slave
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Virtue
Yoke
Cannot
Tyrant
Take
Servitude
Dwell

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The little wind-flower, whose just opened eye Is blue as the spring heaven it gazes at.
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Father, thy hand Hath reared these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and, forthwith, rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun, Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven.
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Alas! to seize the moment When the heart inclines to heart, And press a suit with passion, Is not a woman's part. If man come not to gather The roses where they stand, They fade among their foliage, They cannot seek his hand.
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A melancholy sound is in the air, A deep sigh in the distance, a shrill wail Around my dwelling. 'Tis the Wind of night.
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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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The air was fragrant with a thousand trodden aromatic herbs, with fields of lavender, and with the brightest roses blushing in tufts all over the meadows.
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There is no glory in star or blossom till looked upon by a loving eye There is no fragrance in April breezes till breathed with joy as they wander by.
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And kind the voice and glad the eyes That welcome my return at night.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.
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Self-interest is the most ingenious and persuasive of all the agents that deceive our consciences, while by means of it our unhappy and stubborn prejudices operate in their greatest force.
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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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Loveliest of lovely things are they, On earth, that soonest pass away. The rose that lives its little hour Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.
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Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.
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The February sunshine steeps your boughs and tints the buds and swells the leaves within.
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On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh The rocks moan wildly as it passes by Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, And not a flower adorns the dreary land.
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