'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!
Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace!
The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.
If I don't write to empty my mind, I go mad. As to that regular, uninterrupted love of writing. I do not understand it. I feel it as a torture, which I must get rid of, but never as a pleasure. On the contrary, I think composition a great pain.