The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.

the soul of conversation is sympathy

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return.

One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.

An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write; but how shall I begin? For I'm sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin.

Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing; Wed or cease to woo.