Eloquence Is The Poetry Of Prose.

The Fiercest Agonies Have Shortest Reign; And After Dreams Of Horror, Comes Again The Welcome Morning With Its Rays Of Peace.

The Rugged Trees Are Mingling Their Flowery Sprays In Love; The Ivy Climbs The Laurel To Clasp The Boughs Above.

Ah! Never Shall The Land Forget How Gushed The Life-blood Of Her Brave -

The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying In Their Lowly Beds.

Ere, In The Northern Gale, The Summer Tresses Of The Trees Are Gone, The Woods Of Autumn, All Around Our Vale, Have Put Their Glory On.