Then Marble, Soften'd Into Life, Grew Warm.

Soft O'er The Shrouds Aerial Whispers Breathe, That Seemed But Zephyrs To The Train Beneath.

'tis Not A Lip, Or Eye, We Beauty Call, But The Joint Force And Full Result Of All.

Men Would Be Angels, Angels Would Be Gods.

Who Breaks A Butterfly On A Wheel?

When To Mischief Mortals Bend Their Will, How Soon They Find It Instruments Of Ill.