Who Hail Thee, Man! The

For There No Yew Nor Cypress Spread Their Glom But Roses Blossom'd Each Rustic Tomb.

He Scorn'd His Own, Who Felt Another's Woe.

On Linden, When The Sun Was Low, All Bloodless Lay The Untrodden Snow, And Dark As Winter Was The Flow Of Iser, Rolling Rapidly.

Where The Scriptures Speak, We Speak; Where The Scriptures Are Silent, We Are Silent.

The Popularity Of That Baby-faced Boy, Who Possessed Not Even The Elements Of A Good Actor, Was A Hallucination In The Public Mind, And A Disgrace To Our Theatrical History.