Fate Steals Along With Silent Tread, Found

The Nurse Sleeps Sweetly, Hired To Watch The Sick, / Whom, Snoring, She Disturbs.

What Is It But A Map Of Busy Life, Its Fluctuations, And Its Vast Concerns?

The Parable Of The Prodigal Son, The Most Beautiful Fiction That Ever Was Invented; Our Saviour's Speech To His Disciples, With Which He Closed His Earthly Ministrations, Full Of The Sublimest Dignity And Tenderest Affection, Surpass Everything That I Ever Read; And Like The Spirit By Which They Were Dictated, Fly Directly To The Heart.

I Pity Them Greatly, But I Must Be Mum, For How Could We Do Without Sugar And Rum?

They Best Can Judge A Poet's Worth, Who Oft Themselves Have Known The Pangs Of A Poetic Birth By Labours Of Their Own.