I Cannot Help Thinking That The Menace

Then Stirs The Feeling Infinite, So Felt In Solitude, Where We Are Least Alone.

Like To The Apples On The Dead Sea's Shore, All Ashes To The Taste.

What Is The End Of Fame? 'tis But To Fill A Certain Portion Of Uncertain Paper: Some Liken It To Climbing Up A Hill, Whose Summit, Like All Hills, Is Lost In Vapour: For This Men Write, Speak, Preach, And Heroes Kill, And Bards Burn What They Call Their "midnight Taper," To Have, When The Original Is Dust, A Name, A Wretched Picture, And Worse Bust.

But Beef Is Rare Within These Oxless Isles; Goat's Flesh There Is, No Doubt, And Kid, And Mutton; And, When A Holiday Upon Them Smiles, A Joint Upon Their Barbarous Spits They Put On.

Liberty - Eternal Spirit Of The Chainless Mind