When by my solitary hearth I sit,
When no fair dreams before my “mind’s eye” flit,
And the bare heath of life presents no bloom;
Sweet Hope, ethereal balm upon me shed,
And wave thy silver pinions o’er my head.

I equally dislike the favor of the public with the love of a woman — they are both a cloying treacle to the wings of independence

But what, without the social thought of thee,
Would be the wonders of the sky and sea?