Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.
Tyranny is for the worst of treasons.
May Moorland weavers boast Pindaric skill, And tailors' lays be longer than their bill! While punctual beaux reward the grateful notes, And pay for poems--when they pay for coats.
The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.
Of all tales 'tis the saddest--and more sad, Because it makes us smile.
In solitude, where we are least alone.