Bright-eyed Fancy, hov'ring o'er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.

The time will come, when thou shalt lift thine eyes To watch a long-drawn battle in the skies. While aged peasants, too amazed for words, Stare at the flying fleets of wondrous birds.

Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

Her track, where'er the goddess roves, Glory pursue, and gen'rous shame, Th' unconquerable mind, and freedom's holy flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife.

Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

If the best man's faults were written on his forehead, he would draw his hat over his eyes.