Low On His Funeral Couch He Lies!

Men Will Believe Anything At All Provided They Are Under No Obligation To Believe It.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.

Each In His Narrow Cell Forever Laid, The Rude Forefathers Of The Hamlet Sleep.

To Contemplation's Sober Eye. / Such Is The Race Of Man.

The Insect-youth Are On The Wing, Eager To Taste The Honied Spring, And Float Amid The Liquid Noon!