E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

The still small voice of gratitude.

Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, A youth to fortune and to fame unknown: Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth, And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man.

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

Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.