The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

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

I am ashes where once I was fire.

Nor all that heralds rake from coffin'd clay, Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine-- A sad, sour sober beverage--by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor Down to a very homely household savor.

Hatred is the madness of the heart.