Before us lay a painful road, And guidance have I sought in duteous love From Wisdom's heavenly Father. Hence hath flowed Patience, with trust that, whatsoe'er the way Each takes in this high matter, all may move Cheered with the prospect of a brighter day.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.

Poetry is the breath and finer spirit of all knowledge; it is the impassioned expression which is in the countenance of all Science

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.