Go! you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away! There 's such a charm in melancholy I would not if I could be gay.
To know her was to love her.
By many a temple half as old as Time.
Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.
Fireside happiness, to hours of ease Blest with that charm, the certainty to please.
Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.