Tender Pauses Speak The Overflow Of Gladness,

Do Not The Bright June Roses Blow To Meet Thy Kiss At Morning Hours?

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

Remorse Is Virtue's Root; Its Fair Increase Is Fruits Of Innocence And Blessedness.

The Mighty Rain Holds The Vast Empire Of The Sky Alone.

Virtue Cannot Dwell With Slaves, Nor Reign O'er Those Who Cower To Take A Tyrant's Yoke.