We Die Of Too Much Life.

At Length I Fell Asleep, With The Volume In My Hand; And Never Slept So Sound Before

Think Not, Is My Eleventh Commandment; And Sleep When You Can, Is My Twelfth.

However Baby Man May Brag Of His Science And Skill, And However Much, In A Flattering Future, That Science And Skill May Augment; Yet For Ever And For Ever, To The Crack Of Doom, The Sea Will Insult And Murder Him, And Pulverize The Stateliest, Stiffest Frigate He Can Make; Nevertheless, By The Continual Repetition Of These Very Impressions, Man Has Lost That Sense Of The Full Awfulness Of The Sea Which Aboriginally Belongs To It.

To A Sensitive Being, Pity Is Not Seldom Pain.

One Would Like To Know, What Were Foes Made For Except To Be Used?