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A herd of prairie-wolves will enter a field of melons and quarrel about the division of the spoils as fiercely and noisily as so many politicians.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Politicians
Fiercely
Enter
Quarrel
Field
Herd
Politician
Wolves
Fields
Herds
Noisily
Many
Quarrels
Melons
Spoil
Spoils
Division
Prairie

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The fiercest agonies have shortest reign And after dreams of horror, comes again The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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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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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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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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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 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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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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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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It is said to be the manner of hypochondriacs to change often their physician.
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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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Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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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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So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
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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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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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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?
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