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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.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
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Your peaks are beautiful, ye Apennines! In the soft light of these serenest skies From the broad highland region, black with pines, Fair as the hills of Paradise they rise, Bathed in the tint Peruvian slaves behold In rosy flushes on the virgin gold.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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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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Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue.
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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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Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again.
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Music is not merely a study, it is an entertainment wherever there is music there is a throng of listeners.
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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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Eloquence is the poetry of prose.
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He [William Henry Harrison] did not live long enough to prove his incapacity for the office of President.
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Genius, with all its pride in its own strength, is but a dependent quality, and cannot put forth its whole powers nor claim all its honors without an amount of aid from the talents and labors of others which it is difficult to calculate.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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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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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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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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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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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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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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