'Tis pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print. A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.
The devil was the first democrat
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.
Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.
The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.