Poetry Had Breathed Over And Sanctified The

The Natural Principle Of War Is To Do The Most Harm To Our Enemy With The Least Harm To Ourselves; And This Of Course Is To Be Effected By Stratagem.

Into The Space Of One Little Hour Sins Enough May Be Conjured Up By Evil Tongues To Blast The Fame Of A Whole Life Of Virtue.

The Moan Of The Whip-poor-will From The Hillside; The Boding Cry Of The Tree-toad, That Harbinger Of Storm; The Dreary Hooting Of The Screechowl.

I Sometimes Think One Of The Great Blessings We Shall Enjoy In Heaven, Will Be To Receive Letters By Every Post And Never Be Obliged To Reply To Them.

Sweet Is The Memory Of Distant Friends! Like The Mellow Rays Of The Departing Sun, It Falls Tenderly, Yet Sadly, On The Heart.