Solitude, Seeming A Sanctuary, Proves A Grave;

Forgot The Blush That Virgin Fears Impart To Modest Cheeks, And Borrowed One From Art.

Words Learn'd By Rote A Parrot May Rehearse, But Talking Is Not Always To Converse, Not More Distinct From Harmony Divine The Constant Creaking Of A Country Sign.

Sin Let Loose Speaks Punishment At Hand.

O Winter! Ruler Of The Inverted Year, . . . I Crown Thee King Of Intimate Delights, Fireside Enjoyments, Home-born Happiness, And All The Comforts That The Lowly Roof Of Undisturbed Retirement, And The Hours Of Long Uninterrupted Evening, Know.

Glory, Built On Selfish Principles, Is Shame And Guilt.