History is a cyclic poem written by time upon the memories of man.

Forget the dead, the past? O yet there are ghosts that may take revenge for it, memories that make the heart a tomb, regrets which gild thro’ the spirit’s gloom, and with ghastly whispers tell that joy, once lost, is pain.

Many a green isle needs must be In the deep wide sea of Misery, Or the mariner, worn and wan, Never thus could voyage on.

If certain Critics were as clearsighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their writings!

Of Planets, struggling fierce towards heaven's free wilderness.

Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present.

What! alive, and so bold, O earth?