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He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Prove
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Incapacity
Henry
William

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The groves were God's first temple. Ere man learned To hew the shaft, and lay the architrave, And spread the roof above them,--ere he framed The lofty vault, to gather and roll back The sound of anthems in the darkling wood, Amidst the cool and silence, he knelt down And offered to the Mightiest solemn thanks And supplication.
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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The mighty Rain Holds the vast empire of the sky alone.
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I shall seeThe hour of death draw near to me,Hope, blossoming within my heart. . . .
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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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The rugged trees are mingling Their flowery sprays in love The ivy climbs the laurel To clasp the boughs above.
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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot upon its grassy mold The pur0ple oak-leaf falls the birchen bough drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
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Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear
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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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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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And at my silent window-sill The jessamine peeps in.
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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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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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Do not the bright June roses blow To meet thy kiss at morning hours?
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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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Thine eyes are springs in whose serene And silent waters heaven is seen. Their lashes are the herbs that look On their young figures in the brook.
William C. Bryant