True as the echo to the sound

To vanish in the chinks that Time has made.

Go! you may call it madness, folly; You shall not chase my gloom away! There's such a charm in melancholy I would not if I could be gay.

Mine be a cot beside the hill; A beehive's hum shall soothe my ear; A willowy brook that turns a mill, With many a fall, shall linger near.

Oh ! She was good as she was fair, None—none on earth above her! As pure in thought as angels are: To know her was to love her.

That very law which moulds a tear And bids it trickle from its source,— That law preserves the earth a sphere, And guides the planets in their course.

Ward has no heart, they say, but I deny it: He has a heart, and gets his speeches by it.