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.

A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!

Fear is a cloak which old men huddle about their love, as if to keep it warm.

Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

The Eagle, he was lord above

No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.