Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

I'll teach my boy the sweetest things; I'll teach him how the owlet sings.

Look for the stars, you'll say that there are none; / Look up a second time, and, one by one, / You mark them twinkling out with silvery light, / And wonder how they could elude the sight!

That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!

I listened, motionless and still; And, as I mounted up the hill, The music in my heart I bore, Long after it was heard no more.

Delight and liberty, the simple creed of childhood.