Fancy Is Imagination In Her Youth And

Such Is Our Impatience, Such Our Hatred Of Procrastination, To Everything But The Amendment Of Our Practices And The Adornment Of Our Nature, One Would Imagine We Were Dragging Time Along By Force, And Not He Us.

Was Genius Ever Ungrateful? Mere Talents Are Dry Leaves, Tossed Up And Down By Gusts Of Passion, And Scattered And Swept Away; But, Genius Lies On The Bosom Of Memory, And Gratitude At Her Feet.

We Must Distinguish Between Felicity And Prosperity; For Prosperity Leads Often To Ambition, And Ambition To Disappointment; The Course Is Then Over, The Wheel Turns Round But Once, While The Reaction Of Goodness And Happiness Is Perpetual.

Harmonious Words Render Ordinary Ideas Acceptable; Less Ordinary, Pleasant; Novel And Ingenious Ones, Delightful. As Pictures And Statues, And Living Beauty, Too, Show Better By Music-light, So Is Poetry Irradiated, Vivified, Glorified', And Raised Into Immortal Life By Harmony.

If There Were No Falsehood In The World, There Would Be No Doubt, If There Were No Doubt, There Would Be No Inquiry; If No Inquiry, No Wisdom, No Knowledge, No Genius; And Fancy Herself Would Lie Muffled Up In Her Robe, Inactive, Pale, And Bloated.