Fame Is A Fickle Food Upon A

This Is My Letter To The World, That Never Wrote To Me, The Simple News That Nature Told, With Tender Majesty. Her Message Is Committed, To Hands I Cannot See; For Love Of Her, Sweet Countrymen, Judge Tenderly Of Me.

Tis Not That Dieing Hurts Us So- Tis Living- Hurts Us More.

I Never Lost As Much But Twice, And That Was In The Sod.

Such Is The Force Of Happiness-- The Least Can Lift A Ton Assisted By Its Stimulus.

Death Is A Supple Suitor, That Wins At Last. It Is A Stealthy Wooing; Conducted First By Pallid Innuendos And Dim Approach, But Brave At Last With Bugles.