Old Ocean's Gray And Melancholy Waste.

I Hear The Howl Of The Wind That Brings The Long Drear Storm On Its Heavy Wings.

All That Tread, The Globe Are But A Handful To The Tribes, That Slumber In Its Bosom.

Heed Not The Night; A Summer Lodge Amid The Wild Is Mine, 'tis Shadowed By The Tulip-tree, 'tis Mantled By The Vine.

The Little Wind-flower, Whose Just Opened Eye Is Blue As The Spring Heaven It Gazes At.

A Sculptor Wields The Chisel, And The Stricken Marble Grows To Beauty.