To Him No High, No Low, No

Virtue May Choose The High Or Low Degree, 'tis Just Alike To Virtue, And To Me; Dwell In A Monk, Or Light Upon A King, She's Still The Same Belov'd, Contented Thing.

Ten Censure Wrong For One Who Writes Amiss.

Where Beams Of Imagination Play, The Memory's Soft Figures Melt Away.

The Lights And Shades, Whose Well-accorded Strife Gives All The Strength And Color Of Our Life.

Why Did I Write? What Sin To Me Unknown Dipped Me In Ink, My Parents , Or My Own?