All Things That Are On Earth Shall

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!

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.

Maidens Hearts Are Always Soft: Would That Men's Were Truer!

Father, Thy Hand Hath Reared These Venerable Columns, Thou Didst Weave This Verdant Roof. Thou Didst Look Down Upon The Naked Earth, And, Forthwith, Rose All These Fair Ranks Of Trees. They, In Thy Sun, Budded, And Shook Their Green Leaves In Thy Breeze, And Shot Towards Heaven.

Earth, That Nourished Thee, Shall Claim Thy Growth, To Be Resolved To Earth Again, And, Lost Each Human Trace, Surrendering Up Thine Individual Being, Shalt Thou Go To Mix Forever With The Elements, To Be A Brother To The Insensible Rock And To The Sluggish Clod, Which The Rude Swain Turns With His Share, And Treads Upon. The Oak Shall Send His Roots Abroad, And Pierce Thy Mold.