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

The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.

His faithful dog salutes the smiling guest.

Truth ever lovely - since the world began, The foe of tyrants, and the friend of man.

Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.

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

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