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

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

Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.

The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write; but how shall I begin? For I'm sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin.

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