Those that he loved so long and sees no more, Loved and still loves,-not dead, but gone before,- He gathers round him.

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

To know her was to love her.

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

I lived to write, and wrote to live.

Then never less alone than when alone.

Gentle to others, to himself severe.