Though just biographical record will touch the failings of the good and the eminent with tenderness.

And this tenderness was not like
That which a certain poet
At the beginning of the century called true
And, for some reason, quiet. No, not at all—
It rang out, like the first waterfall,
It crunched like the crust of bluish ice
And it prayed with a swanlike voice,
And it broke down right before our eyes.

To what derision should I be exposed from a thousand quarters!- An unlearned female entering the lists of criticism against the mighty Johnson!

Time's stern tide, with cold Oblivion's wave, Shall soon dissolve each fair, each fading charm.

Let me be content with being happy, without sighing that I am not distinguished.

Suffer not thy wrongs to shroud thy fate, But turn, my soul, to blessings which remain.