Sweet as the tender fragrance that survives, When martyred flowers breathe out their little lives, Sweet as a song that once consoled our pain, But never will be sung to us again, Is they remembrance. Now the hour of rest Hath come to thee. Sleep, darling: it is best.

Silently, one by one, in the infinite meadows of heaven, Blossomed the lovely stars, the forget-me-nots of the angels.

Doubtless criticism was originally benignant, pointing out the beauties of a work rather that its defects. The passions of men have made it malignant, as a bad heart of Procreates turned the bed, the symbol of repose, into an instrument of torture.

The Wreck of the Hesperus But the father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he.

The counterfeit and counterpart of Nature is reproduced in art.

Go forth to meet the shadowy future without fear and with a manly heart.

Ah, Nothing is too late, till the tired heart shall cease to palpitate.