Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretch'd in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

That kill the bloom before its time, And blanch, without the owner's crime, The most resplendent hair.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.