And hold up to the sun my little taper.

Opinions are made to be changed or how is truth to be got at?

The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

In the desert a fountain is springing, In the wide waste there still is a tree, And a bird in the solitude singing, Which speaks to my spirit of thee

The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.

I am acquainted with no immaterial sensuality so delightful as good acting.

As falls the dew on quenchless sands, blood only serves to wash ambition's hands.