Death is the quiet haven of us all.
A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.
Habit rules the unreflecting herd.
A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!
Spade! Thou art a tool of honor in my hands. I press thee, through a yielding soil, with pride.
There is a luxury in self-dispraise; And inward self-disparagement affords To meditative spleen a grateful feast.