But hearing oftentimes The still, sad music of humanity.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

I have felt a presence that disturbs me with the joy of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime of something far more deeply interfused, whose dwelling is the light of setting suns, and the round ocean, and the living air, and the blue sky, and in the mind of man.

Elysian beauty, melancholy grace, Brought from a pensive though a happy place.

This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

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.