None, None Descends Into Himself, To Find

Thus, While The Mute Creation Downward Bend Their Sight, And To Their Earthly Mother Ten, Man Looks Aloft; And With Erected Eyes Beholds His Own Hereditary Skies.

The Soft Complaining Flute, In Dying Notes, Discovers The Woes Of Hopeless Lovers.

While I Am Compassed Round With Mirth, My Soul Lies Hid In Shades Of Grief, Whence, Like The Bird Of Night, With Half-shut Eyes, She Peeps, And Sickens At The Sight Of Day.

He Who Proposes To Be An Author Should First Be A Student.

By Education Most Have Been Misled.