The Idol Of Today Pushes

There Is A Remembrance Of The Dead To Which We Turn Even From The Charms Of The Living.

Nothing Impresses The Mind With A Deeper Feeling Of Loneliness Than To Tread The Silent And Deserted Scene Of Former Throng And Pageant.

Her Mighty Lakes, Like Oceans Of Liquid Silver; Her Mountains With Their Right Aerial Tints; Her Valleys, Teeming With Wild Fertility; Her Tremendous Cataracts, Thundering In Their Solitudes; Her Boundless Plains, Waving With Spontaneous Verdure; Her Brought Deep Rivers, Rolling In Solemn Silence To The Ocean; Her Trackless Forests, Where Vegetation Puts Forth All Its Magnificence; Her Skies, Kindling Waves In The Magic Of The Summer Clouds And Glorious Sunshine;-no, Never Need An American Look Beyond His Own Country For The Sublime And Beautiful Of Natural Scenery.

And If Unhappy In Her Love, Her Heart Is Like Some Fortress That Has Been Captured, And Sacked, And Abandoned, And Left Desolate.

History Fades Into Fable; Fact Becomes Clouded With Doubt And Controversy; The Inscription Molders From The Tablet: The Statue Falls From The Pedestal. Columns, Arches, Pyramids, What Are They But Heaps Of Sand; And Their Epitaphs, But Characters Written In The Dust?