So Mayst Thou Live, Dear! Many Years,

There Is Not A String Attuned To Mirth But Has Its Chord Of Melancholy.

She Stood Breast-high Amid The Corn Clasp'd By The Golden Light Of Morn, Like The Sweetheart Of The Sun, Who Many A Glowing Kiss Had Won.

For Man May Pious Texts Repeat, And Yet Religion Have No Inward Seat

Coquetry Is The Champagne Of Love.

Spontaneously To God Should Turn The Soul, Like The Magnetic Needle To The Pole; But What Were That Intrinsic Virtue Worth, Suppose Some Fellow, With More Zeal Than Knowledge, Fresh From St. Andrew's College, Should Nail The Conscious Needle To The North?