And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.

Be mild, and cleave to gentle things, thy glory and thy happiness be there.

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

Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.

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