Could He With Reason Murmur At His

Blest Be The Art That Can Immortalize,--the Art That Baffles Time's Tyrannic Claim To Quench It.

My Soul Is Sick With Every Day's Report Of Wrong And Outrage With Which Earth Is Filled.

Accomplishments Have Taken Virtue's Place, And Wisdom Falls Before Exterior Grace.

Tis Pleasant, Through The Loopholes Of Retreat, To Peep At Such A World; To See The Stir Of The Great Babel, And Not Feel The Crowd.

Come, Evening, Once Again, Season Of Peace; Return, Sweet Evening, And Continue Long! Methinks I See Thee In The Streaky West, With Matron Step, Slow Moving, While The Night Treads On Thy Sweeping Train; One Hand Employ'd In Letting Fall The Curtain Of Repose On Bird And Beast, The Other Charged For Man With Sweet Oblivion Of The Cares Of Day.