Old Ocean's Gray And Melancholy Waste.

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?

The February Sunshine Steeps Your Boughs And Tints The Buds And Swells The Leaves Within.

Still Sweet With Blossoms Is The Year's Fresh Prime.

He [william Henry Harrison] Did Not Live Long Enough To Prove His Incapacity For The Office Of President.

But 'neath Yon Crimson Tree Lover To Listening Maid Might Breathe His Flame, Nor Mark, Within Its Roseate Canopy, Her Blush Of Maiden Shame.