You should have a softer pillow than my heart.

From the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with light his blended colors glow. . . . . The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.

Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.

I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!