But though bleak winter reigns around,--
Nor fruit, nor flower adorns the ground,
We know that Spring will wake again
All the pageant Summer train.
And Winter has its store of mirth,
Its studies and its social hearth,
And by nature seems designed
To elevate the human mind.
The seed committed to its trust
Will not decay, and sink to dust,--
It will not with the summer die,
And dormant through the winter lie;
But ever fruitful, it will be,
Even through eternity.
Writing Composition.
Well, here I am, sitting down with inkstand, pen and paper all before
me, to write a composition. And what is composition? It is thought
drawn from the resources of the mind, and portrayed upon the unsullied
page. The mind, that mysterious, unfathomable, undying, immortal part
of man; that immaterial essence, which contemplates upon past and
future scenes, from which emanates all our thoughts and passions--and
all our happiness or misery. If we would have our composition correct,
the mind must be well cultivated, for that, like a well cultivated
garden, will produce fine fruit and beautiful flowers, where no noxous
weed should be allowed to intrude, or delicate plant wither and die
for want of culture. The mind should be strengthened and nourished
by solid reading, well digested. The rich volume of nature lies open
before us, where all who will read, may improve the intellect.
Do we seek for the beautiful? we see it around us in the gently
sloping hill, the verdant vale, the fragrant flowers, and the
whispering rill, and the ten thousand varied beauties with which
nature is decked.
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