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

Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas; Whose flag has braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze!

For there no yew nor cypress spread their glom But roses blossom'd each rustic tomb.

O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair?

the soul of conversation is sympathy

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, and robes the mountain in its azure hue.