Books Are Not Seldom Talismans And Spells.

An Idler Is A Watch That Wants Both Hands; As Useless If It Goes As When It Stands.

Th' Embroid'ry Of Poetic Dreams.

I Seem Forsaken And Alone, / I Hear The Lion Roar; / And Every Door Is Shut But One, / And That Is Mercy's Door.

Mansions Once Knew Their Own Masters, And Laborious Hinds, That Had Surviv'd The Father, Serv'd The Son. Now The Legitimate And Rightful Lord Is But A Transient Guest, Newly Arrived, And Soon To Be Supplanted. He That Saw His Patrimonial Timber Cast Its Leaf, Sells The Last Scantling, And Transfers The Price To Some Shrewd Sharper Ere It Buds Again. Estates Are Landscapes, Gazed Upon Awhile, Then Advertised And Auctioneer'd Away.

Fate Steals Along With Silent Tread, Found Oftenest In What Least We Dread; Frowns In The Storm With Angry Brow, But In The Sunshine Strikes The Blow.