Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!
The poetry of speech.
There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast that trusted to his truth
In solitude, when we are least alone.