The harvest of a quiet eye, That broods and sleeps on his own heart.

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

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.

Yet sometimes, when the secret cup Of still and serious thought went round, It seemed as if he drank it up, He felt with spirit so profound.

Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.

Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.