Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

One of those heavenly days that cannot die.

Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

How fast has brother followed brother, From sunshine to the sunless land!