Excerpt from The Works of Edgar Allen Poe, Vol. 7 of 10

The garden like a lady fair was cut,

That lay as if she slumbered in delight,

And to the open skies her eyes did shut;

The azure fields of heaven were 'sembled right

In a large round set with the flowers of light;

The flowers de luce and the round sparks of dew

That hung from their azure leaves did shew

Like twinkling stars that sparkle in the evening blue.

- Giles Fletcher.

From his cradle to his grave a gale of prosperity bore my friend Ellison along. Nor do I use the word prosperity in its mere worldly sense. I mean it as synonymous with happiness. The person of whom I speak seemed born for the purpose of foreshadowing the doctrines of Turgot, Price, Priestly, and Condorcet - of exemplifying by individual instance what has been deemed the chimera of the perfectionists. In the brief existence of Ellison I fancy that I have seen refuted the dogma, that in man's very nature lies some hidden principle, the antagonist of bliss.

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