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Whilom Love was like a fire, and warmth and
comfort it bespoke ; But, alas ! it now is quenched, and only bites us,
like the smoke.
ART AND TACT.
Intelligence and courtesy not always are com
bined; Often in a wooden house a golden room we
Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they
grind exceeding small; Though with patience he stands waiting, with ex
actness grinds he all.
When by night the frogs are croaking, kindle but
a torch's fire, Ha ! how soon they all are silent! Thus Truth
silences the liar.
If perhaps these rhymes of mine sound not well
in strangers' ears, They have only to bethink them that it happens
so with theirs ; For so long as words, like mortals, call a father
land their own, They will be most highly valued where they are
best and longest known.