Life's Bloomy Flush Was Lost.

Through The Sharp Air A Flaky Torrent Flies, Mocks The Slow Sight, And Hides The Gloomy Skies; The Fleecy Clouds Their Chilly Bosoms Bare, And Shed Their Substance On The Floating Air.

Feed The Musician, And He's Out Of Tune.

What Is A Church?—our Honest Sexton Tells, 'tis A Tall Building, With A Tower And Bells.

A Great Lie Is Like A Great Fish On Dry Land; It May Fret And Fling And Make A Frightful Bother, But It Cannot Hurt You. You Have Only To Keep Still, And It Will Die Of Itself.

He Tried The Luxury Of Doing Good.