We All Have Some Taste

He Might Have Proved A Useful Adjunct, If Not An Ornament To Society.

Books Which Are No Books.

Oh For A Tongue To Curse The Slave Whose Treason, Like A Deadly Blight, Comes O'er The Councils Of The Brave, And Blasts Them In Their Hour Of Might!

Man, While He Loves, Is Never Quite Depraved.

A Flow'ret Crushed In The Bud, A Nameless Piece Of Babyhood, Was In Her Cradle-coffin Lying; Extinct, With Scarce The Sense Of Dying