But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

With battlements that on their restless fronts Bore stars.

His love was like the liberal air, embracing all, to cheer and bless.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

Milton, thou should'st be living at this hour.