When our heroes, like bridegrooms, with lips and with breath, Drank the first kiss of Danger and clasped her in death; And the heart of brave WINTHROP grew mute, with his lyre, When the plumes of his genius lay moulting in fire,— "Column!
— from The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 10, No. 59, September, 1862 A Magazine of Literature, Art, and Politics by Various
And therefore, though he is a king, he is king of darkness, and carries hell in his own bosom, whether he moves among the beauteous bowers of Eden, or dwells for days upon earth, in the wilderness, in the holy temple, or on the high mountain, with even God manifest in the flesh beside him.
— from Parish Papers by Norman Macleod
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