O who knows what slumbers in the background of the times?

A monarch never can too dearly buy

The peace of his own son—his only son.

Yet have I heard it said that those

Who watch men's looks and carry tales about,

Have done more mischief in this world of ours

Than the assassin's knife, or poisoned bowl.

Be circumspect

With men—but not with every man alike.

Repel not friends and hypocrites together.

O the idea was childish, but divinely beautiful.

Great souls endure in silence.

A moment lived in paradise

Is not atoned for too dearly by death.

Love is only known by him who hopelessly persists in love.

Alas! that when from the Creator's hand

You took mankind, and moulded him to suit

Your own ideas, making yourself the god

Of this new creature, you should overlook

That you yourself remained a human being—

A very man, as from God's hands you came.

Still did you feel a mortal's wants and pains.

You needed sympathy; but to a God

One can but sacrifice, and pray, and tremble—

Wretched exchange! Perversion most unblest

Of sacred nature! Once degrade mankind,

And make him but a thing to play upon,

Who then can share the harmony with you?

You would plant

For all eternity, and yet the seeds

You sow around you are the seeds of death!

The mighty dead will not be honored now

By fruitless tears. Tears are for petty sorrows!