Our Pleasures And Our Discontents,

Art Is The Child Of Nature; Yes, Her Darling Child, In Whom We Trace The Features Of The Mother's Face, Her Aspect And Her Attitude, All Her Majestic Loveliness Chastened And Softened And Subdued Into A More Attractive Grace, And With A Human Sense Imbued. He Is The Greatest Artist, Then, Whether Of Pencil Or Of Pen, Who Follows Nature.

Intelligence And Courtesy Not Always Are Combined; Often In A Wooden House A Golden Room We Find.

There Is No Death! What Seems So Is Transition; This Life Of Mortal Breath Is But A Suburb Of The Life Elysian, Whose Portal We Call Death.

Some Must Follow And Some Command, Through All Are Made Oclay.

The Grave Itself Is But A Covered Bridge, Leading From Light To Light, Through A Brief Darkness!