Sad Is His Lot, Who,

Time Is A Great Ocean Which, Like The Other Ocean, Overflows With Our Remains.

I Am Persuaded That If The Brutes Even--if The Dog, The Horse, The Ox, The Elephant, The Bird, Could Speak, They Would Confess, That, At The Bottom Of Their Nature, Their Instincts, Their Sensations, Their Obtuse Intelligence, Assisted By Organs Less Perfect Than Ours, There Is A Clouded, Secret Sentiment Of This Existence Of A Superior And Primordial Being, From Whom All Emanates, And To Whom All Returns.

Hence Life, As Through A Cloud, For Me I See Vanish, And To The Past's Dark Shade 'tis Chas'd; As A Grand Image Love Remains To Me-- Sole Remnant Of A Dream, By Morn Effac'd.

Sentiment Is The Poetry Of The Imagination.

The People Only Understand What They Can Feel; The Only Orators That Can Affect Them Are Those Who Move Them.