MY first, though scrutinized with close inspections
Is found above all human imperfections.
I hold it in my hand,—yet though polite,
’T is of no use to me while in my sight.
But still ’tis felt, and in my secret soul
Upon reflection, I commend my whole.
Now nothing can describe my second better
Than the last part of a well-written letter.
My whole cannot escape his fate so sad,
Tradition tells us all his race goes mad.