A Rose With All Its Sweetest Leaves

And If I Laugh At Any Mortal Thing, 'tis That I May Not Weep.

Perhaps The Early Grave Which Men Weep Over May Be Meant To Save.

Nor All That Heralds Rake From Coffin'd Clay, Nor Florid Prose, Nor Honied Lies Of Rhyme, Can Blazon Evil Deeds, Or Consecrate A Crime.

My Native Land, Good Night!

Dead Scandals Form Good Subjects For Dissection.