I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.

What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.

All that we behold is full of blessings.

And now I see with eye serene, The very pulse of the machine. A being breathing thoughtful breaths, A traveler between life and death.