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Yes—they whom candour and true taste inspire, Blame not with half the passion they admire: Each little blemish with regret descry, But mark the beauties with a raptur'd eye.

There is perhaps no feeling of our nature so complicated, so vague, so mysterious, as that with which we look upon the cold remains of our fellow mortals. The dignity with which death invests even the meanest of his victims, inspires us with an awe no living creature can create. The monarch on his throne is less awful than the beggar in his shroud. The marble features, the powerless hand, the stiffened limbs, the eye closed and glazed,—Oh can we contemplate these with feelings which can be defined ? These are the mockery of all our hopes and fears; of our fondest love, and of our fellest hate.

When vice prevails, and impious men bear sway, The post of honour is a private station.

Addison.

Hafsd, my own beloved lord, She kneeling cries—-first, last ador'd I If in that soul thou'st ever felt Half what thy lips impassion