Oh, how portentous is prosperity! How comet-like, it threatens while it shines.
The soft whispers of the God in man.
Narcissus is the glory of his race: For who does nothing with a better grace?.
Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.
Who, for the poor renown of being smart, Would leave a sting within a brother's heart?
Where boasting ends, there dignity begins.