Then Marble, Soften'd Into Life, Grew Warm.

Wholesome Solitude, The Nurse Of Sense!

The Meeting Points The Sacred Hair Dissever From The Fair Head, Forever, And Forever! Then Flashed The Living Lightning From Her Eyes, And Screams Of Horror Rend Th' Affrighted Skies.

Where Grows?--where Grows It Not? If Vain Our Toil, We Ought To Blame The Culture, Not The Soil.

It Is Not So Much The Being Exempt From Faults, As Having Overcome Them, That Is An Advantage To Us.

Yes, I Am Proud; I Must Be Proud To See Men Not Afraid Of God, Afraid Of Me.