For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.

There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.

Tis strange,-but true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction: if it could be told, How much would novels gain by the exchange! How differently the world would men behold!

Come what may, I have been blest.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.

Roll on, deep and dark blue ocean, roll. Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain. Man marks the earth with ruin, but his control stops with the shore.

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.