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

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.

One of those heavenly days that cannot die.

On a fair prospect some have looked, And felt, as I have heard them say, As if the moving time had been A thing as steadfast as the scene On which they gazed themselves away.

The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

A power is passing from the earth.

I should dread to disfigure the beautiful ideal of the memories of illustrious persons with incongruous features, and to sully the imaginative purity of classical works with gross and trivial recollections.