Flowers Spring Up Unsown And

And We Wept That One So Lovely Should Have A Life So Brief.

All That Tread, The Globe Are But A Handful To The Tribes, That Slumber In Its Bosom.

On My Cornice Linger The Ripe Black Grapes Ungathered; Children Fill The Groves With The Echoes Of Their Glee, Gathering Tawny Chestnuts, And Shouting When Beside Them Drops The Heavy Fruit Of The Tall Black-walnut Tree.

Autumn, The Year's Last, Loveliest Smile.

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