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Such parting break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

Fare thee well! and if for ever, Still for ever, fare thee well.

Let's not unman each other--part at once; All farewells should be sudden, when forever, Else they make an eternity of moments, And clog the last sad sands of life with tears.

We two parted In silence and tears, Half broken-hearted To sever for years.

Kathleen Mavourneen, the gray dawn is breaking, The horn of the hunter is heard on the hill, The lark from her light wing the bright dew is shaking-- Kathleen Mavourneen, what, slumbering, still? Oh hast thou forgotten how soon we must sever? Oh hast thou forgotten this day we must part? It may be for years and it may be forever; Oh why art thou silent, thou voice of my heart?

Ah, nut-brown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.

Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were.

The best of prophets of the future is the past.

For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?

Mark! where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it--peace!

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place!

I prefer the most unfair peace to the most righteous war.

For everything seemed resting on his nod, As they could read in all eyes. Now to them, Who were accustomed, as a sort of god, To see the sultan, rich in many a gem, Like an imperial peacock stalk abroad With all the pomp of power, it was a doubt How power could condescend to do without.

Oh! nature's noblest gift--my gray-goose quill! Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will, Torn from thy parent-bird to form a pen, That might instrument of little men!

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.

Pleasure's a sin, and sometimes sin's a pleasure.

There is no sterner moralist than pleasure.

For florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme, Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.

The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.

Ovid's a rake, as half his verses show him, Anacreon's morals are a still worse sample, Catullus scarcely has a decent poem, I don't think Sappho's Ode a good example, Although Longinus tells us there is no hymn Where the sublime soars forth on wings more ample; But Virgil's songs are pure, except that horrid one Being with "Formosum Pastor Corydon."