The moving moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside.

I have often thought what a melancholy world this would be without children, and what an inhuman world without the aged.

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

I must reject fluids and ethers of all kinds, magnetical, electrical, and universal, to whatever quintessential thinness they may be treble distilled, and as it were super-substantiated.

Poetry gives most pleasure when only generally and not perfectly understood.

Tranquillity! thou better name Than all the family of Fame.

With no other privilege than that of sympathy and sincere good wishes, I would address an affectionate exhortation to the youthful literati, grounded on my own experience. It will be but short; for the beginning, middle, and end converge to one charge: NEVER PURSUE LITERATURE AS A TRADE.