Death is the quiet haven of us all.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.

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

The child shall become father to the man.

The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!

Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!