And Truth Severe, By Fairy

From Helicon's Harmonious Springs A Thousand Rills Their Mazy Progress Take.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.

The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

What Female Heart Can Gold Despise? What Cat 's Averse To Fish?

Low On His Funeral Couch He Lies!