For When Was Public Virtue To Be

Books Are Not Seldom Talismans And Spells.

An Epigram Is But A Feeble Thing - With Straw In Tail, Stuck There By Way Of Sting.

Glory, Built On Selfish Principles, Is Shame And Guilt.

Twere Better To Be Born A Stone Of Ruder Shape, And Feeling None, Than With A Tenderness Like Mine And Sensibilities So Fine! Ah, Hapless Wretch! Condemn'd To Dwell Forever In My Native Shell, Ordained To Move When Others Please, Not For My Own Content Or Ease; But Toss'd And Buffeted About, Now In The Water And Now Out.

We Bear Our Shades About Us; Self-deprived Of Other Screen, The Thin Umbrella Spread, And Range An Indian Waste Without A Tree.