The Eagle, he was lord above

The thought of our past years in me doth breed perpetual benedictions.

Those old credulities, to Nature dear, Shall they no longer bloom upon the stock Of history?

The best of what we do and are, Just God, forgive!

Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

There is a comfort in the strength of love; 'Twill make a thing endurable, which else would overset the brain, or break the heart.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy.