Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

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.

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

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The paths of glory lead but to the grave.