Man is man, and master of his fate.

Yonder cloud That rises upward always higher, And onward drags a laboring breast, And topples round the dreary west, A looming bastion fringed with fire.

We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.

With a little hoard of maxims preaching down a daughter's heart.

Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.

Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.