There's Nothing Fair Nor Beautiful,

If The Great Captain Of Plymouth Is So Very Eager To Wed Me, Why Does He Not Come Himself, And Take The Trouble To Woo Me? If I Am Not Worth The Wooing, I Surely Am Not Worth The Winning!

'twas Easter-sunday. The Full-blossomed Trees Filled All The Air With Fragrance And With Joy.

Read From Some Humbler Poet, Whose Songs Gushed From His Heart, As Showers From The Clouds Of Summer, Or Tears From The Eyelids Start.

The Motives And Purposes Of Authors Are Not Always So Pure And High, As, In The Enthusiasm Of Youth, We Sometimes Imagine. To Many The Trumpet Of Fame Is Nothing But A Tin Horn To Call Them Home, Like Laborers From, The Field, At Dinner-time, And They Think Themselves Lucky To Get The Dinner.

It Was Autumn, And Incessant Piped The Quails From Shocks And Sheaves, And, Like Living Coals, The Apples Burned Among The Withering Leaves.