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

Men who can hear the Decalogue, and feel To self-reproach.

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

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

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.

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

Far from the world I walk, and from all care.