There was a grave just closed. Not one seemed near, To pay the tribute of one long—last tear! How very desolate must that one be, Whose more than gra… - Letitia Elizabeth Landon

There is an indolence in grief
Which will not even seek relief. What is the toil, or care, or pain,
The human heart cannot sustain?
Enough if struggling can create
A change or colour in our fate;
But where's the spirit that can cope
With listless suffering, when hope,
The last of misery's allies,
Sickens of its sweet self, and dies.

To make our story shorter than the miniature groom's, he learnt that his own property in himself was in danger; and that, if the patriot's definition of liberty be true —"it is like the air we breathe, without it we die"—his life was near its termination. A writ was issued against him; and, thanks to a douceur to his valet, two professional gentlemen, as he left his toilet, would deprive his friends at the Clarendon of his company.

The gallantry of an English peasant rarely expands into words.