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Ah, why Should we, in the world's riper years, neglect God's ancient sanctuaries, and adore Only among the crowd and under roofs That our frail hands have raised?

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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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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War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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Lo! while we are gazing, in swifter haste Stream down the snows, till the air is white, As, myriads by myriads madly chased, They fling themselves from their shadowy height. The fair, frail creatures of middle sky, What speed they make, with their grave so nigh Flake after flake, To lie in the dark and silent lake!
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The journalist should be on his guard against publishing what is false in taste or exceptionable in morals.
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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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God hath yoked to guilt her pale tormentor,--misery.
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