Champagne With Its Foaming Whirls/as White As

Come What May, I Have Been Blest.

Be Thou The Rainbow In The Storms Of Life. The Evening Beam That Smiles The Clouds Away, And Tints Tomorrow With Prophetic Ray.

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

Tis Sweet To Listen As The Night Winds Creep From Leaf To Leaf.

I Am About To Be Married, And Am Of Course In All The Misery Of A Man In Pursuit Of Happiness.