Not all the pride of beauty; Those eyes, that tell us what the sun is made of; Those lips, whose touch is to be bought with life; Those hills of driven snow, which seen are felt: All these possessed are nought, but as they are The proof, the substance of an inward passion, And the rich plunder of a taken heart.

Creation sleeps! 'T is as the general pulse Of life stood still, and Nature made a pause,- An awful pause! prophetic of her end.

Early, bright, transient, chaste as morning dew, She sparkled, was exhaled, and went to heaven.

The maid that loves goes out to sea upon a shattered plank, and puts her trust in miracles for safety.

To frown at pleasure, and to smile in pain.

When men of infamy to grandeur soar, They light a torch to show their shame the more.

Ocean into tempest wrought, To waft a feather, or to drown a fly.