How Sweet, How Passing Sweet, Is Solitude!

Some Drill And Bore The Solid Earth, And From The Strata There Extract A Register, By Which We Learn, That He Who Made It, And Reveal'd Its Date To Moses, Was Mistaken In Its Age.

Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

Oh To Have A Lodge In Some Vast Wilderness. Where Rumors Of Oppression And Deceit, Of Unsuccessful And Successful Wars May Never Reach Me Anymore.

Far Happier Are The Dead Methinks Than They Who Look For Death And Fear It Every Day.

Admirals Extolled For Standing Still, Or Doing Nothing With A Deal Of Skill.