Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?

Who falls from all he knows of bliss, Cares little into what abyss.

Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

I awoke one day to find myself famous.