Utopias Are Often Just Premature Truths.

Silence,--the Applause Of Real And Durable Impressions.

Poets And Heroes Are Of The Same Race, The Latter Do What The Former Conceive.

We Are Earth's Children, And Life Is The Same In Sap As In Blood; All That The Earth, Our Mother, Feels And Expresses To The Eye By Her Form And Aspect, In Melancholy Or In Splendor, Finds An Echo Within Us.

Nature Has Given Women Two Painful But Heavenly Gifts, Which Distinguish Them, And Often Raise Them Above Human Nature,--compassion And Enthusiasm. By Compassion, They Devote Themselves; By Enthusiasm They Exalt Themselves.

But Nature Too, Shakes Off Her Sleep Today; By May's Mild Sun We See Reviv'd Her Frame, Around My Window Venus' Birds Proclaim, The Month Most Cherish'd Backwards Bends His Way!