Virtue Cannot Dwell With Slaves, Nor Reign

I Hear The Howl Of The Wind That Brings The Long Drear Storm On Its Heavy Wings.

A Silence, The Brief Sabbath Of An Hour, Reigns O'er The Fields; The Laborer Sits Within His Dwelling; He Has Left His Steers Awhile, Unyoked, To Bite The Herbage, And His Dog Sleeps Stretched Beside The Door-stone In The Shade. Now The Gray Marmot, With Uplifted Paws, No More Sits Listening By His Den, But Steals Abroad, In Safety, To The Clover-field, And Crops Its Juicy-blossoms.

A Melancholy Sound Is In The Air, A Deep Sigh In The Distance, A Shrill Wail Around My Dwelling. 'tis The Wind Of Night.

Features, The Great Soul's Apparent Seat.

It Is A Sultry Day; The Sun Has Drunk The Dew That Lay Upon The Morning Grass; There Is No Rustling In The Lofty Elm That Canopies My Dwelling, And Its Shade Scarce Cools Me. All Is Silent, Save The Faint And Interrupted Murmur Of The Bee, Settling On The Sick Flowers, And Then Again Instantly On The Wing.