But Winter Lingering Chills The Lap Of

Some Fleeting Good, That Mocks Me With The View.

The Little Mind Who Loves Itself, Will Wr'te And Think With The Vulgar; But The Great Mind Will Be Bravely Eccentric, And Scorn The Beaten Road, From Universal Benevolence.

The Volume Of Nature Is The Book Of Knowledge.

All Is Not Gold That Glitters, Pleasure Seems Sweet, But Proves A Glass Of Bitters

Amid Thy Desert-walks The Lapwing Flies, And Tires Their Echoes With Unvaried Cries.