The Dew Of Compassion Is A Tear.

Still From The Fount Of Joy's Delicious Springs Some Bitter O'er The Flowers Its Bubbling Venom Flings.

For Pleasures Past I Do Not Grieve, Nor Perils Gathering Near; My Greatest Grief Is That I Leave Nothing That Claims A Tear.

There Is Pleasure In The Pathless Woods.

I Would Rather Have A Nod From An American, Than A Snuff- Box From An Emperor.

Like To The Apples On The Dead Sea's Shore, All Ashes To The Taste.