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

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

And weep the more, because I weep in vain.

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

Visions of glory, spare my aching sight! Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul!

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