May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.

When thus the heart is in a vein Of tender thought, the simplest strain Can touch it with peculiar power.

Satire does not look pretty upon a tombstone.

Summer, as my friend Coleridge waggishly writes, has set in with its usual severity.

The laws of Pluto's kingdom know small difference between king and cobbler, manager and call-boy; and, if haply your dates of life were conterminant, you are quietly taking your passage, cheek by cheek (O ignoble levelling of Death) with the shade of some recently departed candle-snuffer.

Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken; The eyes that shone Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.