It is a misfortune that necessity has induced men to accord greater license to this formidable engine, in order to obtain liberty, than can be borne with less important objects in view; for the press, like fire, is an excellent servant, but a terrible master.
Beauty imposes reverence in the Spring, Grave as the urge within the honeybuds, It wounds us as we sing. Beauty is joy that stays not overlong. Clad in the magic of sincerities, It rides up in a song. Beauty imposes chastenings on the heart, Grave as the birds in last solemnities Assembling to depart.