If the will, which in the law of our nature, were withdrawn from our memory, fancy, understanding, and reason, no other hell could equal, for a spiritual being, what we should then feel from the anarchy of our powers. It would be conscious madness,--a horrid thought!

How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!

How sweetly did they float upon the wings Of silence through the empty-vaulted night, At every fall smoothing the raven down Of darkness till it smiled!

Athens, the eye of Greece, mother of arts And eloquence.

The first and wisest of them all professed To know this only, that he nothing knew.

Innumerable as the stars of night, Or stars of morning, dewdrops which the sun Impearls on every leaf and every flower.

What hath night to do with sleep?