And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.

From toil he wins his spirits light, From busy day the peaceful night; Rich, from the very want of wealth, In heaven's best treasures, peace and health.

Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.

No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

Ah, tell them they are men!