For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.
Men of England! who inheritRights that cost your sires their blood.
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.
I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.
The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.