The sickening pang of hope deferr'd.
Blessed be his name, who hath appointed the quiet night to follow the busy day, and the calm sleep to refresh the wearied limbs and to compose the troubled spirit.
But with morning cool repentance came.
Great talent has always a little madness mixed up with it.
Dear to me is my bonnie white steed; Oft has he helped me at pinch of need.
Call it not vain: they do not err Who say that when the poet dies Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies.