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

Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone--glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory's goal, They won, and pass'd away--Is this the whole?

All Heaven and Earth are still, though not in sleep, But breathless, as we grow when feeling most.

Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past.

Who tracks the steps of glory to the grave?

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.