Vast and deep the mountain shadows grew.
I lived to write, and wrote to live.
Sweet Memory! wafted by thy gentle gale, Oft up the stream of Time I turn my sail.
Long on the wave reflected lustres of play.
When with care we have raised an imaginary treasure of happiness, we find at last that the materials of the structure are frail and perishing, and the foundation itself is laid in the sand.
Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.