Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.

He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

It is when we think we lead that we are most led.

And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!

Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

The poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still the master's own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour'd falls, unnoticed all his worth, Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth, While man, vain insect hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive heaven.

A drop of ink may make a million think.