In What A Forge And What A

Simplicity Is The Character Of The Spring Of Life, Costliness Becomes Its Autumn; But A Neatness And Purity, Like That Of The Snow-drop Or Lily Of The Valley, Is The Peculiar Fascination Of Beauty, To Which It Lends Enchantment, And Gives What Amiability Is To The Mind.

Then Read From The Treasured Volume The Poem Of Thy Choice, And Lend To The Rhyme Of The Poet The Beauty Of Thy Voice.

Some Critics Are Like Chimney-sweepers; They Put Out The Fire Below, And Frighten The Swallows From Their Nests Above; They Scrape A Long Time In The Chimney, Cover Themselves With Soot, And Bring Nothing Away But A Bag Of Cinders, And Then Sing From The Top Of The House As If They Had Built It.

Mercy More Becomes A Magistrate Than The Vindictive Wrath Which Men Call Justice.

God's Voice Was Not In The Earthquake, Not In The Fire, Nor The Storm, But It Was In The Whispering Breezes.