“Her mother died long years ago, and took
One half the blessed sunshine from our house,
The other half was married off last night.”
This is genuine poetry, and we recognize it at once. Again, describing the rising moon,—
“Mark how the moon, as by some unseen arm,
Is thrust toward heaven like a bloody shield.”
The following noble burst should go far to cheer those whose labors appear to produce no immediate results:—
“Are there no wrongs but what a nation feels—
No heroes but among the martial throng?
Nay, there are patriot souls who never grasped