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

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.

The still small voice of gratitude.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

To each his suff'rings; all are men, Condemn'd alike to groan,- The tender for another's pain, Th' unfeeling for his own. Yet ah! why should they know their fate, Since sorrow never comes too late, And happiness too swiftly flies? Thought would destroy their paradise. No more; where ignorance is bliss, 'T is folly to be wise.

Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.