It Is Not For Minds

It Has Been Said That The Immortality Of The Soul Is A Grand Peut-tre -but Still It Is A Grand One. Everybody Clings To It -the Stupidest, And Dullest, And Wickedest Of Human Bipeds Is Still Persuaded That He Is Immortal.

In Hope To Merit Heaven By Making Earth A Hell.

For Through The South The Custom Still Commands The Gentleman To Kiss The Lady's Hands.

And Life 's Enchanted Cup But Sparkles Near The Brim.

Oh! Snatched Away In Beauty's Bloom, On Thee Shall Press No Ponderous Tomb; But On Thy Turf Shall Roses Rear Their Leaves, The Earliest Of The Year.