My highway is unfeatured air

I laugh, for hope hath happy place with me; If my bark sinks, 'tis to another sea.

Most joyful let the Poet be; It is through him that all men see.

I sing New England, as she lights her fire In every Prairie's midst; and where the bright Enchanting stars shine pure through Southern night, She still is there, the guardian on the tower, To open for the world a purer hour.

A wail in the wind is all I hear; A voice of woe for a lover's loss.

'Tis not how witty, nor how free, Nor yet how beautifull she be, But how much kinde and true to me.

Wages is a cunning device of the devil, for the benefit of tender consciences, who would retain all the advantages of the slave system, without the expense, trouble, and odium of being slave-holders.