There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

O Gold! I still prefer thee unto paper, which makes bank credit like a bark of vapour.

Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

My native land, good night!

I am never long, even in the society of her I love, without yearning for the company of my lamp and my library.

She was like me in lineaments-- her eyes Her hair, her features, all, to the very tone Even of her voice, they said were like to mine; But soften'd all, and temper'd into beauty; She had the same lone thoughts and wanderings, The quest of hidden knowledge, and a mind To comprehend the universe: nor these Alone, but with them gentler powers than mine, Pity, and smiles, and tears-- which I had not; And tenderness-- but that I had for her; Humility-- and that I never had. Her faults were mine-- her virtues were her own-- I loved her, and destroy'd her!