Like The Bee, We Should Make Our

Our Pleasures Are Short, And Can Only Charm At Intervals; Love Is A Method Of Protraction Our Greatest Pleasure.

To Be Poor, And To Seem Poor, Is A Certain Method Never To Rise.

Where'er I Roam, Whatever Realms To See, My Heart Untravelled, Fondly Turns To Thee; Still To My Brother Turns, With Ceaseless Pain, And Drags At Each Remove A Lengthening Chain.

Logicians Have But Ill Defined As Rational The Human Mind; Reason, They Say, Belongs To Man, But Let Them Prove It If They Can.

As Some Tall Cliff That Lifts Its Awful Form, Swells From The Vale, And Midway Leaves The Storm,- Though Round Its Breast The Rolling Clouds Are Spread, Eternal Sunshine Settles On Its Head.