With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.
Poetry is the outcome of emotions recollected in tranquility.
Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.
Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.
We live by admiration, hope and love.
Recognizes ever and anon The breeze of Nature stirring in his soul.