A man of eighty has outlived probably three new schools of painting, two of architecture and poetry and a hundred in dress.

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more

From the mingled strength of shade and light A new creation rises to my sight, Such heav'nly figures from his pencil flow, So warm with light his blended colors glow. . . . . The glowing portraits, fresh from life, that bring Home to our hearts the truth from which they spring.

Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven!

She / Was married, charming, chaste, and twenty-three.

Sighing that Nature formed but one such man, and broke the die.