And Those Who Saw, It

This Man Is Freed From Servile Bands, Of Hope To Rise, Or Fear To Fall; Lord Of Himself, Though Not Of Lands, And Leaving Nothing, Yet Hath All.

Here Lies Interred In The Eternity Of The Past, From Whence There Is No Resurrection For The Days - Whatever There May Be For The Dust - The Thirty-third Year Of An Ill-spent Life, Which, After A Lingering Disease Of Many Months Sank Into A Lethargy, And Expired, January 22d, 1821, A.d. Leaving A Successor Inconsolable For The Very Loss Which Occasioned Its Existence.

Grief Is Fantastical, And Loves The Dead, And The Apparel Of The Grave.

There's Music In The Sighing Of A Reed; There's Music In The Gushing Of A Rill; There's Music In All Things, If Men Had Ears; The Earth Is But The Music Of The Spheres.

Poetry Should Only Occupy The Idle.