This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.

This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.

Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

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

Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.

For pleasures past I do not grieve, nor perils gathering near; My greatest grief is that I leave nothing that claims a tear.