Sweeter than roses was the face
For whom I pluck'd the flower;
Sweeter than heaven was the place
In that delightful hour.

You promised me, a year ago,
When autumn bleach'd the mistletoe,
That you and I should be as one;
But now another autumn's gone —
Its solemn knell is in the blast,
And love's bright sun is overcast;
Yet flowers will bloom and birds will sing,
And e'en the winter claim the spring.

I know one deed in kindness done
More glory brings, more fame has won,
Than countless good we would have wrought
To all the world — if we had thought.

Vánka the Cat and Váska were two brothers; they were both born and lived in the same house. Vánka was so lean that it would frighten you to look at him,—in truth, he was not rounder than a plank; whereas Vánka was as fat as the steward, and could barely waddle on account of his obesity; his fur had the sheen of velvet.

O Thou, of British Orators the chief
That were , or are in being , or belief;
All eminence and goodness as thou art,
Accept the gratitude of POET SMART,
The meanest of the tuneful train as far,
As thou transcend'st the brightest at the bar.

The thunder of Hate may be lost on the gale,
May be stilled in the storm, in the tempest may fail,
But the whisper of Love wings unerring its way
From a star to a star, through the ages for aye.

Built amidst waves, whilst Neptune pleas'd surveys,
Fair Venice sovereign of the Adrian seas.
No more, said he, let Jove or Mars presume
To boast the dome and tow'rs of rival Rome
Tho' Tiber more than stormy Adria please,
View both these cities with impartial eyes;
With wonder struck, this difference you'll assign,
This built by mortal, that by hands divine.

When Brutus' fall wing'd fame to Porcia brought,
Those arms her friends conceal'd, her passion sought
She soon perceiv'd their poor officious wiles,
Approves their zeal, but at their folly smiles.
What Cato taught heaven sure cannot deny,
Bereav'd of all, we still have pow'r to die.
Then down her throat the burning coal conveyed,
Go now, ye fools, and hide your swords, she said.

As one who on the idle shore
Bends at the Galley bench no more,
I look back to the days when we
Tugged the long sweeps in company.
Yet there were moments even then
When there was thought of Books and Men,
When there was talk of Verse and Prose—
I send you these remembering those.

Time marks our days with white and black
In his Perennial Almanack;

But there's one day I don't forget,
And that's the day when first we met.