"No more--no more--oh! never more on me
The freshness of the heart can fall like dew,
Which out of all the lovely things we see
Extracts emotions beautiful and new,
Hived in our bosoms like the bag o' the bee.
Think'st thou the honey with those objects grew?
Alas! 't was not in them, but in thy power
To double even the sweetness of a flower."

"All who joy would win
Must share it; happiness was born a twin."

"He entered in the house,--his home no more,
For without hearts there is no home--and felt
The solitude of passing his own door
Without a welcome; _there_ he long had dwelt,
There his few peaceful days Time had swept o'er,
There his worn, bosom and keen eye would melt
Over the innocence of that sweet child,
His only shrine of feelings undefiled."

These three passages are from a poem in which there is more wit than
poetry, and more cynicism than either; a poem in spirit unsanctified,
Mephistophelian, written by a man of the world, a terrible
egotist, _blasé_ already in early manhood, in whose life, through
organization, inherited temperament, and miseducation, humanity was so
cramped, distorted, envenomed, that the best of it was in the fiery
sway of the more urgent passions, his inmost life being, as it must
always be with poets, inwoven into his verse. From the expiring
volcano in his bosom his genius, in this poem, casts upon the world a