England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.

Now as the Paradisiacal pleasures of the Mahometans consist in playing upon the flute and lying with Houris, be mine to read eternal new romances of Marivaux and Crebillon.

Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page Rich with the spoils of time did ne'er unroll; Chill Penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.

They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.