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

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

The meanest flowret of the vale, / The simplest note that swells the gale, / The common sun, the air, and skies, / To him are opening paradise.

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

Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.

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

When love could teach a monarch to be wise, And gospel-light first dawn'd from Bullen's eyes.