For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care: No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile, The short and simple annals of the …

Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tow'r The moping owl does to the moon complain.

Scarcely a tear to shed; Hardly a word to say; The end of a Summer's day; Sweet Love is dead.

If they had said that the sun or the moon had gone out of the heavens, it could not have struck me with the idea of a more awful and dreary blank in creation t…

You have lost a child, a dear, dear child. I have lost the only earthly object of my affection.... I have now one request to make,... deny me not. Afford me th…