Ten thousand saw I at a glance, tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The good die first, and they whose hearts are dry as summer dust, burn to the socket.

Our noisy years seem moments in the being Of the eternal Silence.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.

Laying out grounds... may be considered as a liberal art, in some sort like poetry and painting.... it is to assist Nature in moving the affections... the affections of those who have the deepest perception of the beauty of Nature.

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.