Treason Seldom Dwells With Courage.

The Tear, Down Childhood's Cheek That Flows, Is Like The Dewdrop On The Rose; When Next The Summer Breeze Comes By And Waves The Bush, The Flower Is Dry.

If A Faultless Poem Could Be Produced, I Am Satisfied It Would Tire The Critics Themselves; And Annoy The Whole Reading World With The Spleen.

No Scene Of Mortal Life But Teems With Mortal Woe.

Look At A Gown Of Gold, And You Will At Least Get A Sleeve Of It.

Oh, Brignall Banks Are Wild And Fair, And Greta Woods Are Green, And You May Gather Garlands There Would Grace A Summer's Queen.