To Husband Out Life's Taper At The

Turn, Gentle Hermit Of The Dale, And Guide My Lonely Way To Where Yon Taper Cheers The Vale With Hospitable Ray.

Sweet Was The Sound, When Oft, At Evening's Close, Up Yonder Hill The Village Murmur Rose; There As I Passed, With Careless Steps And Slow, The Mingling Notes Came Soften'd From Below; The Swain Responsive As The Milkmaid Sung, The Sober Herd That Low'd To Meet Their Young; The Noisy Geese That Gabbled O'er The Pool, The Playful Children Just Let Loose From School; The Watch-dog's Voice That Bay'd The Whispering Wind, And The Loud Laugh That Spoke The Vacant Mind; These All In Sweet Confusion Sought The Shade, And Fill'd Each Pause The Nightingale Had Made.

True Generosity Is A Duty As Indispensably Necessary As Those Imposed On Us By Law.

As In Some Irish Houses, Where Things Are So-so, One Gammon Of Bacon Hangs Up For A Show; But, For Eating A Rasher Of What They Take Pride In, They'd As Soon Think Of Eating The Pan It Is Fried In.

Fine Declamation Does Not Consist In Flowery Periods, Delicate Allusions Of Musical Cadences, But In A Plain, Open, Loose Style, Where The Periods Are Long And Obvious, Where The Same Thought Is Often Exhibited In Several Points Of View.