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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Misery
Yoked
Tormentor
Pale
Hath
Guilt

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Truth crushed to the earth will rise again!
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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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And the blue gentian-flower, that, in the breeze, Nods lonely, of her beauteous race the last.
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To him who in the love of Nature holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language.
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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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Follow thou thy choice.
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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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All things that are on earth shall wholly pass away, Except the love of God, which shall live and last for aye.
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It is a sultry day the sun has drunk The dew that lay upon the morning grass There is no rustling in the lofty elm That canopies my dwelling, and its shade Scarce cools me. All is silent, save the faint And interrupted murmur of the bee, Settling on the sick flowers, And then again Instantly on the wing.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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The summer morn is bright and fresh, the birds are darting by. As if they loved to breast the breeze that sweeps the cool clear sky.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul!
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Poetry is the eloquence of verse.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
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The press, important as is its office, is but the servant of the human intellect, and its ministry is for good or for evil, according to the character of those who direct it. The press is a mill which grinds all that is put into its hopper. Fill the hopper with poisoned grain, and it will grind it to meal, but there is death in the bread.
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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Pain dies quickly, and lets her weary prisoners go the fiercest agonies have shortest reign.
William C. Bryant