He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.

A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.

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

What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.

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

I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.

But sad as angels for the good man's sin, Weep to record, and blush to give it in.