Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

Paris strikes the vulgar part of us infinitely the most, but to a thinking mind London is incomparably the most delightful subject for contemplation.

Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.

Every day a little life, a blank to be inscribed with gentle thoughts.

Then never less alone than when alone.

The soul of music slumbers in the shell Till waked and kindled by the master's spell; And feeling hearts, touch them but rightly, pour A thousand melodies unheard before!

Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.