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

Oft in my way have I stood still, though but a casual passenger, so much I felt the awfulness of life.

I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting. Not in entire forgetfulness, and not in utter nakedness, but trailing clouds of glory do we come.

Thou unassuming common-place of Nature, with that homely face.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

In this sequestered nook how sweet To sit upon my orchard seat And birds and flowers once more to greet. . . .