The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

The vision and the faculty divine; Yet wanting the accomplishment of verse.

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light

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

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.

For oft, when on my couch I lie in vacant or in pensive mood they flash upon that inward eye which is the bliss of solitude

A power is passing from the earth.