How Blest Is He Who Crowns In

To The Last Moment Of His Breath, On Hope The Wretch Relies; And Even The Pang Preceding Death Bids Expectation Rise.

An Englishman Fears Contempt More Than Death.

As Some Tall Cliff That Lifts Its Awful Form, Swells From The Vale, And Midway Leaves The Storm,- Though Round Its Breast The Rolling Clouds Are Spread, Eternal Sunshine Settles On Its Head.

To What Fortuitous Occurrence Do We Not Owe Every Pleasure And Convenience Of Our Lives.

As For Murmurs, Mother, We Grumble A Little Now And Then, To Be Sure; But There's No Love Lost Between Us.