The Keen Spirit Seizes The Prompt Occasion.

The Secret Heart Is Fair Devotion's Temple; There The Saint, Even On That Living Altar, Lights The Flame Of Purest Sacrifice, Which Burns Unseen, Not Unaccepted.

Imagination Frames Events Unknown, In Wild, Fantastic Shapes Of Hideous Ruin, And What It Fears Creates.

How Short Is Human Life! The Very Breath Which Frames My Words Accelerates My Death.

I Am Persuaded That There Is No Affection Of The Human Heart More Exquisitely Pure, Than That Which Is Felt By A Grateful Son Towards A Mother.

Oh! The Joy Of Young Ideas Painted On The Mind, In The Warm Glowing Colors Fancy Spreads On Objects Not Yet Known, When All Is New, And All Is Lovely.