In A Fleshly Tomb, I Am Buried

Domestic Happiness, Thou Only Bliss Of Paradise That Has Surviv'd The Fall!

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

Some Men Make Gain A Fountain, Whence Proceeds A Stream Of Liberal And Heroic Deeds; The Swell Of Pity, Not To Be Confined Within The Scanty Limits Of The Mind.

When All Within Is Peace How Nature Seems To Smile Delights That Never Cease The Live-long Day Beguile

Some Write A Narrative Of Wars And Feats, Of Heroes Little Known, And Call The Rant A History.