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

May books and nature be their early joy!

Open-mindedness is the harvest of a quiet eye.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

Truth takes no account of centuries.