God is thy law, thou mine: to know no more Is woman's happiest knowledge and her praise. With thee conversing I forget all time.

Nothing is here for tears, nothing to wail Or knock the breast, no weakness, no contempt, Dispraise, or blame,-nothing but well and fair, And what may quiet us in a death so noble.

They also serve who only stand and wait.

Tower'd cities please us then, And the busy hum of men.

Time will run back and fetch the Age of Gold.

As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?

If this fail, The pillar'd firmament is rottenness, And earth's base built on stubble.