ROBERT F. MORROW Dear man! although a stranger and… To soft affection’s humanizing glo… Although untaught how manly hearts… With more desires than the desire…

The polecat, sovereign of its nati… Dashes damnation upon bad and good… The health of all the upas trees i… By exhalations deadlier than their… Poisons the rattlesnake and warts…

'Let Glory’s sons manipulate The tiller of the Ship of State. Be mine the humble, useful toil To work the tiller of the soil.'

Twas a sick young man with a face… And an eye that was all alone; And he shook his head in a hopeles… As he sat on a roadside stone. ‘O, ailing youth, what untoward fa…

Great Joseph D. Redding-illustri… Considered a fish-horn the trumpet… That goddess was angry, and what d… Her trumpet she filled with a gall… And all through the Press, with a…

I turned my eyes upon the Future’… And saw its pictured prophecies un… I saw that magical life-laden trai… Flash its long glories o’er Nebra… I saw it smoothly up the mountain…

Lord of the tempest, pray refrain From leveling this church again. Now in its doom, as so you’ve will… We acquiesce. But _you’ll_ rebuil…

Let slaves and subjects with unvar… Before their sovereign execute sal… The freeman scorns one idol to ado… Tom, Dick and Harry and himself a…

The Swan of Avon died-the Swan Of Sacramento’ll soon be gone; And when his death-song he shall c… Stand back, or it will kill you to…

So, in the Sunday papers _you_, D… Damn, all great Englishmen in Eng… I am no Englishman, but in my rea… A rogue shall never rail where her… You are the man, if I mistake you…

Standing within the triple wall of… And flattening his nose against a… Behind whose brazen bars he’d had… A thousand million ages to that da… Stoneman bewailed his melancholy f…

‘O son of mine age, these eyes los… Be eyes, I pray, to thy dying sir… ‘O father, fear not, for mine eyes… I read through a millstone at dead… ‘My son, O tell me, who are those…

Says England to Germany: 'Africa… Says Germany: ‘Ours, I opine.’ Says Africa: 'Tell me, delectable… What is it that ought to be mine?'

'Tis the census enumerator A-singing all forlorn: It’s ho! for the tall potater, And ho! for the clustered corn. The whiffle-tree bends in the bree…

To him in whom the love of Nature… Imperfectly supplanted the desire And dread necessity of food, your… Fair Oakland, is a terror. Over a… Your sunny level, from Tamaletown