I Toiled After It, Sir, As Some

The Light That Lies In Woman's Eyes.

Here Cometh April Again, And As Far As I Can See The World Hath More Fools In It Than Ever.

The Harp That Once Through Tara's Halls The Soul Of Music Shed, Now Hangs As Mute On Tara's Walls As If That Soul Were Fled. So Sleeps The Pride Of Former Days, So Glory's Thrill Is O'er; And Hearts That Once Beat High For Praise Now Feel That Pulse No More.

Reader, If You Are Gifted With Nerves Like Mine, Aspire To Any Character But That Of A Wit.

I Can Scarce Bring Myself To Believe, That I Am Admitted To A Familiar Correspondence, And All The License Of Friendship, With A Man Who Writes Blank Verse Like Milton.