For Your Ignorance Is The Mother Of

He Was The Man Who Of All Modern, And Perhaps Ancient Poets, Had The Largest And Most Comprehensive Soul. . . . He Was Naturally Learn'd; He Needed Not The Spectacles Of Books To Read Nature; He Looked Inwards, And Found Her There. . . . He Is Many Times Flat, Insipid; His Comic Wit Degenerating In To Clenches, His Serious Swelling Into Bombast. But He Is Always Great, When Some Occasion Is Presented To Him.

The Scum That Rises Upmost, When The Nation Boils.

Death Only This Mysterious Truth Unfolds, The Mighty Soul How Small A Body Holds.

Blown Roses Hold Their Sweetness To The Last.

For Lawful Power Is Still Superior Found, When Long Driven Back, At Length It Stands The Ground.