The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!

And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.

Yon Sun that sets upon the sea We follow in his flight; Farewell awhile to him and thee, My native land-Good Night!

Like the measles, love is most dangerous when it comes late in life.

O thou beautiful And unimaginable ether! and Ye multiplying masses of increased And still increasing lights! what are ye? what Is this blue wilderness of interminable Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden? Is your course measur'd for ye? Or do ye Sweep on in your unbounded revelry Through an aerial universe of endless Expansion,--at which my soul aches to think,-- Intoxicated with eternity.

Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source.

Hatred is the madness of the heart.