Blest that abode, where want and pain repair, And every stranger finds a ready chair.

I fancy the character of a poet is in every country the same,--fond of enjoying the present, careless of the future; his conversation that of a man of sense, his actions those of a fool.

Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn.

As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form, Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,- Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head.

Such dainties to them, their health it might hurt; It 's like sending them ruffles when wanting a shirt.

Some fleeting good, that mocks me with the view.

The little mind who loves itself, will wr'te and think with the vulgar; but the great mind will be bravely eccentric, and scorn the beaten road, from universal benevolence.