Even In A Hero's Heart Discretion Is

With Curious Art The Brain, Too Finely Wrought, Preys On Herself, And Is Destroyed By Thought.

There's A Strange Something, Which Without A Brain Fools Feel, And Which E'en Wise Men Can't Explain, Planted In Man, To Bind Him To That Earth, In Dearest Ties, From Whence He Drew His Birth.

The Rigid Saint, By Whom No Mercy's Shown To Saints Whose Lives Are Better Than His Own.

He Mouths A Sentence As Curs Mouth A Bone.

Constant Attention Wears The Active Mind, Blots Out Our Pow'rs, And Leaves A Blank Behind.