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.

Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.

His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.

Books are yours, Within whose silent chambers treasure lies Preserved from age to age; more precious far Than that accumulated store of gold And orient gems, which, for a day of need, The Sultan hides deep in ancestral tombs. These hoards of truth you can unlock at will.

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.

I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams, wherever nature led.

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