For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast, And breathed in the face of the foe as he passed; And the eyes of the sleepers waxed deadly and chill, And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!

There is pleasure in the pathless woods, there is rapture in the lonely shore, there is society where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar; I love not Man the less, but Nature more.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer For other's weal avail'd on high, Mine will not all be lost in air, But waft thy name beyond the sky.

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.

And hold up to the sun my little taper.