What know we of the Blest above but that they sing, and that they love?

Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.

Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.

The eye— it cannot choose but see; we cannot bid the ear be still; our bodies feel, where'er they be, against or with our will.

Scorn not the sonnet. Critic, you have frowned, Mindless of its just honours; with this key Shakespeare unlocked his heart.

For by superior energies; more strict affiance in each other; faith more firm in their unhallowed principles, the bad have fairly earned a victory over the weak, the vacillating, inconsistent good.

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