Classic Poem

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. Or seek we for the sublime, we must contemplate the
whirlwind in its fury, the vivid lightning's flash, and the deep toned
thunder, reverberating peal on peal, the mountain torrent, dashing
down the stupendous height, and hurrying to embosom itself in the
ocean below; or the forest, standing unbroken in its silent majesty,
till the thoughts instinctively rise from the sublimities of nature,
to nature's God, the maker and former of them all.

Composition is said to be the index of the mind, if so, how necessary
it is that there should be no improper word or idea expressed, no blot
or tarnish should be upon the fair page; how chaste and elegant should
be the diction, how pure and refined the idea, how simple and concise
the expression. It should be like the glassy lake that reflects an
unclouded sky--the mirror of a spotless mind.