Tis the perception of the beautiful, A fine extension of the faculties, Platonic, universal, wonderful, Drawn from the stars, and filtered through the skies, Without which life would be extremely dull

Accursed be the city where the laws would stifle nature's!

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.

Like to the apples on the Dead Sea's shore, All ashes to the taste.

Mark! Where his carnage and his conquests cease, He makes a solitude and calls it-peace!

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs, A palace and a prison on each hand.

For what were all these country patriots born? To hunt, and vote, and raise the price of corn?