What sorrow was, thou bad'st her know, And from her own she learned to melt at others' woe. - Thomas Gray

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 poor....

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breast
The little tyrant of his fields withstood;
Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,
Some Cromwell guiltless of his country's blood.

A FLOWER THAT SMILES TODAY , TOMORROW DIES. ALL THAT WE WISH TO STAY, TEMPTS AND THEN FILES

Helm nor hauberk's twisted mail, Nor even thy virtues, tyrant, shall avail To save thy secret soul from nightly fears, From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!