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Atque ea per campos dum Marte geruntur

ubi sanguine belluin
Imbuit, et primæ commisit funera pugnæ;
En perfecta tibi bello discordia triste. VIRGIL.





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CHEERLESS and dull, would life's realities appear, if stripped of the celestial illuminations, of the noblest faculty of the human mind, the IMAGINATION! Without it, man would grope in the midst of darkness; he would exist in a world without a sun;-without it, he would be a branchless trunk, standing upon a barren rock, in the midst of a silent sandy desert. It is this supernal endowment, which elevates him above the ephemera, destined to bloom for a little hour on this terrestrial ball, and then to sink into oblivious decay.

The unconfinable thoughts which wander through eternity, tell us—the final destiny of the soul, is more noble than to be ever imprisoned in this poor speck of earth, whereon we hold our being. Without the aid of the heavenly gift of imagination, existence would be insupportably painful and dark: man, far from aspiring to the society of angels, would soon sink to a level with the brutes that are doomed to perish. It is this power which lends enchantment to every scene, by gilding the sad realties of woe, and by adding ornaments to every substaptial good. To its creative power are the

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