In solitude, when we are least alone.

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou? Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead? Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low Some less majestic, less beloved head?

Our life is two fold Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality.

Then stirs the feeling infinite, so felt In solitude, where we are least alone.

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.

Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear'st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man's be e'er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.