Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.

The last great Englishman is low.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.

And o'er the hills, and far away Beyond their utmost purple rim, Beyond the night, across the day, Thro' all the world she follow'd him.