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.

The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

The mind that is wise mourns less for what age takes away; than what it leaves behind.

My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky: So was it when my life began; So is it now I am a man.

His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.

May books and nature be their early joy!

The moving accident is not my trade; To freeze the blood I have no ready arts: 'Tis my delight, alone in summer shade, To pipe a simple song for thinking hearts.