Wisdom married to immortal verse.

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.

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

In years that bring the philosophic mind.

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.