A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.

Follow thou thy choice.

Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

Eloquence is the poetry of prose.

Yet will that beauteous image make The dreary sea less drear And thy remembered smile will wake The hope that tramples fear

I grieve for life's bright promise, just shown and then withdrawn.