I awoke one day to find myself famous.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!
And I would hear yet once before I perish The voice which was my music... Speak to me!
I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.
I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.
May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.