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.

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

Gentle to others, to himself severe.

To know her was to love her.

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.

That very law which moulds a tear And bids it trickle from its source,- That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.