Any fool may write a most valuable book by chance, if he will only tell us what he heard and saw with veracity.
Hands that the rod of empire might have sway'd, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre.
Poetry is thoughts that breathe, and words that burn.
Scatter plenty o'er a smiling land.
Ah, tell them they are men!
Full many a gem of purest ray serene The dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear: Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.