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

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

Gentle to others, to himself severe.

I lived to write, and wrote to live.

Think nothing done while aught remains to do.

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.

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