They never fail who die in a great cause.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling like dew, upon a thought, produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
I awoke one morning and found myself famous.
And the commencement of atonement is the sense of its necessity.
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.