For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.

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

... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

Choice word and measured phrase above the reach Of ordinary men.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!