Such sights as youthful poets dream On summer eves by haunted stream. Then to the well-trod stage anon, If Jonson's learned sock be on, Or sweetest Shakespeare, Fancy's child, Warble his native wood-notes wild.

No war or battle sound Was heard the world around.

Thou art my father, thou my author, thou my being gav'st me; whom should I obey but thee, whom follow?

Now I see Peace to corrupt no less than war to waste.

Truth is compared in Scripture to a streaming fountain; if her waters flow not in perpetual progression, they sicken into a muddy pool of conformity and tradition.

Who overcomes by force, hath overcome but half his foe.

Who, as they sung, would take the prison'd soul And lap it in Elysium.