I Saw Old Autumn In The Misty

What Is A Modern Poet's Fate? / To Write His Thoughts Upon A Slate; / The Critic Spits On What Is Done, / Gives It A Wipe - And All Is Gone.

Pity It Is To Slay The Meanest Thing.

How Widely Its Agencies Vary,- To Save, To Ruin, To Curse, To Bless,- As Even Its Minted Coins Express, Now Stamp'd With The Image Of Good Queen Bess, And Now Of A Bloody Mary.

When Eve Upon The First Of Men The Apple Press'd With Specious Cant, Oh! What A Thousand Pities Then That Adam Was Not Adamant!

Dear Bells! How Sweet The Sound Of Village Bells When On The Undulating Air They Swim!