E'en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

I shall be but a shrimp of an author.

In the evening, I walked alone down to the Lake by the side of Crow Park after sunset and saw the solemn coloring of night draw on, the last gleam of sunshine fading away on the hilltops, the seep serene of the asters, and the long shadows of the mountains thrown across them, till they nearly touched the hithermost shore. At distance hear the murmur of many waterfalls not audible in the day-time. Wished for the moon, but she was dark to me and silent, hid in her vacant interlunar cave.

And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.

And hie him home, at evening's close, To sweet repast and calm repose.

He pass'd the flaming bounds of place and time: The living throne, the sapphire blaze, Where angels tremble while they gaze, He saw; but blasted with excess of light, Closed his eyes in endless night.

Chill penury repress'd their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.