O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.

Beauty's witching sway is now to me a star that's fallen-a dream that's passed away.

He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.

A man who will not leave his room because he does not know how, or is afraid to open the door, is trapped just the same whether or not the door is locked.

I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.

What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.

Who hath not own'd, with rapture-smitten frame, The power of grace, the magic of a name.