Methought I Saw My Late Espoused Saint.

These Eyes, Tho' Clear To Outward View Of Blemish Or Of Spot, Bereft Of Light, Their Seeing Have Forgot, Nor To Their Idle Orbs Doth Sight Appear Of Sun, Or Moon, Or Star, Throughout The Year, Or Man, Or Woman. Yet I Argue Not Against Heaven's Hand Or Will, Not Bate A Jot Of Heart Or Hope; But Still Bear Up And Steer Right Onward.

Cedar, And Pine, And Fir, And Branching Palm, A Sylvan Scene, And As The Ranks Ascend Shade Above Shade, A Woody Theatre Of Stateliest View.

Peace Hath Her Victories, No Less Renowned Than War.

If It Come To Prohibiting, There Is Aught More Likely To Be Prohibited Than Truth Itself.

Among Unequals What Society Can Sort, What Harmony, Or True Delight?