Dear To Me Is My Bonnie White

Merrily, Merrily Goes The Bark On A Breeze From The Northward Free, So Shoots Through The Morning Sky The Lark, Or The Swan Through The Summer Sea.

Independently Of The Curious Circumstance That Such Tales Should Be Found Existing In Very Different Countries And Languages, Which Augurs A Greater Poverty Of Human Invention Than We Would Have Expected, There Is Also A Sort Of Wild Fairy Interest In Them, Which Makes Me Think Them Fully Better Adapted To Awaken The Imagination And Soften The Heart Of Childhood Than The Good-boy Stories Which Have Been In Later Years Composed For Them.

And Better Had They Ne'er Been Born, Who Read To Doubt, Or Read To Scorn.

Soldier, Rest! Thy Warfare O'er.

Methinks I Will Not Die Quite Happy Without Having Seen Something Of That Rome Of Which I Have Read So Much.