The Art Of Poetry Is To Touch

Admirals Extolled For Standing Still, Or Doing Nothing With A Deal Of Skill.

How Much A Dunce That Has Been Sent To Roam, Excels A Dunce That Has Been Kept At Home.

This Fond Attachment To The Well-known Place Whence First We Started Into Life's Long Race, Maintains Its Hold With Such Unfailing Sway, We Feel It E'en In Age, And At Our Latest Day.

How Soft The Music Of Those Village Bells, Falling At Interval Upon The Ear In Cadence Sweet; Now Dying All Away, Now Pealing Loud Again, And Louder Still, Clear And Sonorous, As The Gale Comes On! With Easy Force It Opens All The Cells Where Memory Slept.

No, Freedom Has A Thousand Charms To Show That Slaves, Howe'er Contented, Never Know.