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All that's bright must fade.
The brightest still the fleetest;
But to be lost when sweetest.
Farewell! But whenever you welcome the hour. You may break, you may shatter the vase, if you will, But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
Above the green elms, that a cottage was near,
"A heart that was humble might hope for it here."
The Blue Stocking.
To weep, yet scarce know why;
Then throw it idly by.
This World is all a fleeting Show.
For man's illusion given;
Deceitful shine, deceitful flow —
Oft in the Stilly Night.
E'er slumber's chain has bound me,
Of other days around me.
First Sunday after Epiphany.
* Altered in later editions to
No workman steel, no ponderous axes rung,
No sound of hammer or of saw was there.
The Winter Morning Walk, B. V. Cowpee
Seventh Sunday after Trinity. When spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil.
At a Funeral.
On heavenly hope and earthly hope.
But earthly hope, how bright soe'er,
As false and fleeting as 'tis fair.
From India's coral strand,
Roll down their golden sand.
JONATHAN M. SEWALL.
Epilogue to Gato.
WRITTEN FOR THE BOW STREET THEATRE, PORTSMOUTH, N. H. 1778.
No pent up Utica contracts your powers,
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
1788-1821. CHILDE HAROLD. Canto i. St. 9. Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.
Canto ii. St. 2.
Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.
Ohilde Harold — Continued.
Age shakes Athena's towers, but spares gray Marathon.
Canto iii. St. 1.
Music arose with its voluptuous swell.