In Civilized Life, Where The Happiness, And

Too Young For Woe, Though Not For Tears.

Some Minds Corrode And Grow Inactive Under The Loss Of Personal Liberty; Others Grow Morbid And Irritable; But It Is The Nature Of The Poet To Become Tender And Imaginitive In The Loneliness Of Confinement. He Banquets Upon The Honey Of His Own Thoughts, And, Like The Captive Bird, Pours Forth His Soul In Melody.

When The Gauls Laid Waste Rome, They Found The Senators Clothed In Their Robes, And Seated In Stern Tranquillity In Their Curule Chairs; In This Manner They Suffered Death Without Resistance Or Supplication. Such Conduct Was In Them Applauded As Noble And Magnanimous; In The Hapless Indians It Was Reviled As Both Obstinate And Sullen. How Truly Are We The Dupes Of Show And Circumstances! How Different Is Virtue, Clothed In Purple And Enthroned In State, From Virtue, Naked And Destitute, And Perishing Obscurely In A Wilderness.

I Have Often Had Occasion To Remark The Fortitude With Which Women Sustain The Most Overwhelming Reverses Of Fortunes.

There Is A Healthful Hardiness About Real Dignity That Never Dreads Contact And Communion With Others However Humble.