I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.

Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Two voices are there; one is of the sea, One of the mountains: each a mighty Voice.

The childhood of today is the manhood of tomorrow