Fills The Air Around With

This Is The Patent Age Of New Inventions For Killing Bodies, And For Saving Souls. All Propagated With The Best Intentions.

Romances I Ne'er Read Like Those I Have Seen.

Perhaps The Early Grave Which Men Weep Over May Be Meant To Save.

But There Are Wanderers O'er Eternity Whose Bark Drives On And On, And Anchor'd Ne'er Shall Be.

Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul Hath Seized? In Him Alone, Can Nature Show As Fair?