The Meanest Flowret Of The Vale, /

The Applause Of List'ning Senates To Command, The Threats Of Pain And Ruin To Despise, To Scatter Plenty O'er A Smiling Land, And Read Their History In A Nation's Eyes.

In The Evening, I Walked Alone Down To The Lake By The Side Of Crow Park After Sunset And Saw The Solemn Coloring Of Night Draw On, The Last Gleam Of Sunshine Fading Away On The Hilltops, The Seep Serene Of The Asters, And The Long Shadows Of The Mountains Thrown Across Them, Till They Nearly Touched The Hithermost Shore. At Distance Hear The Murmur Of Many Waterfalls Not Audible In The Day-time. Wished For The Moon, But She Was Dark To Me And Silent, Hid In Her Vacant Interlunar Cave.

Beyond The Limits Of A Vulgar Fate, Beneath The Good How Far,-but Far Above The Great.

The Boast Of Heraldry, The Pomp Of Pow'r, And All That Beauty, All That Wealth E'er Gave, Awaits Alike Th' Inevitable Hour. The Paths Of Glory Lead But To The Grave.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.