Some Write A Narrative Of Wars And

Grief Is Itself A Medicine.

There Is In Souls A Sympathy With Sounds: And As The Mind Is Pitch'd The Ear Is Pleased With Melting Airs, Or Martial, Brisk Or Grave; Some Chord In Unison With What We Hear Is Touch'd Within Us, And The Heart Replies.

To Follow Foolish Precedents, And Wink With Both Our Eyes, Is Easier Than To Think.

Pity! Religion Has So Seldom Found A Skilful Guide Into Poetic Ground! The Flowers Would Spring Where'er She Deign'd To Stray And Every Muse Attend Her In Her Way.

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