Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.

Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.

Then never less alone than when alone.

Gentle to others, to himself severe.

Almost all men are over anxious. No sooner do they enter the world than they lose that taste for natural and simple pleasures so remarkable in early life. Every hour do they ask themselves what progress they have made in the pursuit of wealth or honor and on they go as their fathers went before them till weary and sick at heart they look back with a sigh of regret to the golden time of their childhood.

I lived to write, and wrote to live.

The good are better made by ill, As odours crushed are sweeter still.