Too innocent for coquetry, too fond for idle scorning- Oh friend, I fear the lightest heart makes sometimes heaviest mourning.

A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers; There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears.

Every poet hopes that after-times Shall set some value on his votive lay.

Love not! love not! ye hopeless sons of clay; Hope's gayest wreaths are made of earthly flowers- Things that are made to fade and fall away, Ere they have blos…