So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.

Poetry should only occupy the idle.

Old man! 'Tis not difficult to die.

No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.

I've seen your stormy seas and stormy women, And pity lovers rather more than seamen.

I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; A palace and a prison on each hand; I saw from out the wave of her structure's rise As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand: A thousand years their cloudy wings expand Around me, and a dying Glory smiles O'er the far times, when many a subject land Look'd to the winged Lion's marble pines, Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.

So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less!