With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.

Retirement accords with the tone of my mind; I will not descend to a world I despise.

A man must serve his time to every trade, Save censure-critics all are ready made. Take hackney'd jokes from Miller, got by rote With just enough learning to misquote.

Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.

Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.

But 'why then publish?' There are no rewards Of fame or profit when the world grows weary. I ask in turn why do you play at cards? Why drink? Why read? To make some hour less dreary. It occupies me to turn back regards On what I've seen or pondered, sad or cheery, And what I write I cast upon the stream To swim or sink. I have had at least my dream.