What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.

This is to be mortal, And seek the things beyond mortality.

Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

And gentle winds and waters near, make music to the lonely ear.

In solitude, when we are least alone.

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?