And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.

A still small voice spake unto me, 'Thou art so full of misery, Were it not better not to be?

Forgive my grief for one removed Thy creature whom I found so fair I trust he lives in Thee and there I find him worthier to be loved.

Virtue must shape itself in deed.

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea.

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

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.