Covetousness Bursts The Sack And Spills The

Call It Not Vain: They Do Not Err Who Say That When The Poet Dies Mute Nature Mourns Her Worshipper, And Celebrates His Obsequies.

Soldier, Rest! Thy Warfare O'er.

Breathes There The Man With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land.

The Misery Of Keeping A Dog Is His Dying So Soon. But, To Be Sure, If He Lived For Fifty Years And Then Died, What Would Become Of Me?

Hard Toil Can Roughen Form And Face, And Want Call Quench The Eye's Bright Grace.