Poetry Is The Eloquence Of Verse.

Can Anything Be Imagined More Abhorrent To Every Sentiment Of Generosity And Justice, Than The Law Which Arms The Rich With The Legal Right To Fix, By Assize, The Wages Of The Poor? If This Is Not Slavery, We Have Forgotten Its Definition. Strike The Right Of Associating For The Sale Of Labor From The Privileges Of A Freeman, And You May As Well Bind Him To A Master, Or Ascribe Him To The Soil.

A Stable, Changeless State, 'twere Cause Indeed To Weep.

So Live, That When Thy Summons Comes To Join, The Innumerable Caravan Which Moves, To That Mysterious Realm Where Each Shall Take, His Chamber In The Silent Halls Of Death, Thou Go Not, Like The Quarry-slave At Night, Scourged By His Dungeon, But, Sustained And Soothed, By An Unfaltering Trust, Approach Thy Grave, Like One Who Wraps The Drapery Of His Couch, About Him, And Lies Down To Pleasant Dreams.

Lo! While We Are Gazing, In Swifter Haste Stream Down The Snows, Till The Air Is White, As, Myriads By Myriads Madly Chased, They Fling Themselves From Their Shadowy Height. The Fair, Frail Creatures Of Middle Sky, What Speed They Make, With Their Grave So Nigh; Flake After Flake, To Lie In The Dark And Silent Lake!

To Him Who In The Love Of Nature Holds Communion With Her Visible Forms, She Speaks A Various Language.