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

The light of love, the purity of grace, The mind, the Music breathing from her face, The heart whose softness harmonised the whole — And, oh! that eye was in itself a Soul!

In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.

Few things surpass old wine; and they may preach Who please, the more because they preach in vain

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

A timid mind is apt to mistake every scratch for a mortal wound.

The mellow autumn came, and with it came The promised party, to enjoy its sweets. The corn is cut, the manor full of game; The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats In russet jacket;--lynx-like is his aim; Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats. An, nutbrown partridges! An, brilliant pheasants! And ah, ye poachers!--'Tis no sport for peasants.