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

The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

A deep distress has humanised my soul.

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.