In the infancy of society every author is necessarily a poet

Death is the veil which those who live call life; They sleep, and it is lifted.

We rest; a dream has power to poison sleep. We rise; one wand'ring thought pollutes the day. We feel, conceive, or reason; laugh or weep, Embrace fond woe, or cast our cares away; It is the same: for, be it joy or sorrow, The path of its departure still is free. Man's yesterday may ne'er be like his morrow; Nought may endure but Mutability!

The cloud of mind is discharging its collected lightning.

Far clouds of feathery gold, Shaded with deepest purple, gleam Like islands on a dark blue sea.

Only nature knows how to justly proportion to the fault the punishment it deserves.

Lie bills and calculations much perplexed, With steam-boats, frigates, and machinery quaint Traced over them in blue and yellow paint.