Tis but a part we see, and not a whole.
In death a hero, as in life a friend!
Wholesome solitude, the nurse of sense!
Time conquers all, and we must time obey.
To endeavor to work upon the vulgar with fine sense is like attempting to hew blocks with a razor.
Oft, as in airy rings they skim the heath, The clamtrous lapwings feel the leaden death; Oft, as the mounting larks their notes prepare They fall, and leave their little lives in air.