Good Taste Is His Religion, His Morality,

The Past Is Perpetual Youth To The Heart.

It Merely Shews, After All, That Affection Is A Habit.

It Is Said That Ridicule Is The Test Of Truth: It Is Never Applied, But When We Wish To Deceive Ourselves.

Sneering Springs Out Of The Wish To Deny; And Wretched Must That State Of Mind Be That Wishes To Take Refuge In Doubt.

The Dream On The Pillow, That Flits With The Day, The Leaf Of The Willow A Breath Wears Away; The Dust On The Blossom, The Spray On The Sea; Ay,--ask Thine Own Bosom-- Are Emblems Of Thee.