Made Poetry A Mere Mechanic Art.

But, Oh, Thou Bounteous Giver Of All Good, Thou Art, Of All Thy Gifts, Thyself Thy Crown!

For 'tis A Truth Well Known To Most, That Whatsoever Thing Is Lost, We Seek It, Ere It Comes To Light, In Every Cranny But The Right.

I Would Not Enter On My List Of Friends (though Graced With Polished Manners And Fine Sense, Yet Wanting Sensibility) The Man Who Needlessly Sets Foot Upon A Worm.

Now Stir The Fire, And Close The Shutters Fast, Let Fall The Curtains, Wheel The Sofa Around, And While The Bubbling And Loud-hissing Urn Throws Up A Steamy Column, And The Cups That Cheer But Not Inebriate, Wait On Each, So Let Us Welcome Peaceful Evening In

Strength May Wield The Ponderous Spade, May Turn The Clod, And Wheel The Compost Home; But Elegance, Chief Grace The Garden Shows, And Most Attractive, Is The Fair Result Of Thought, The Creature Of A Polished Mind.