Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.

A cheerful life is what the Muses love. A soaring spirit is their prime delight.

Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity.

Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.

This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

Minds that have nothing to confer Find little to perceive.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!