Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

Sorrow preys upon Its solitude, and nothing more diverts it From its sad visions of the other world Than calling it at moments back to this. The busy have no time for tears.

I have a passion for the name of "Mary," For once it was a magic sound to me, And still it half calls up the realms of fairy, Where I beheld what never was to be.

Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?