Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.

To brisk notes in cadence beating, glance their many-twinkling feet.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife Their sober wishes never learn'd to stray; Along the cool sequester'd vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Ah, tell them they are men!

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

No further seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode (There they alike in trembling hope repose), The bosom of his Father and his God.

What female heart can gold despise? What cat 's averse to fish?