Like thoughts whose very sweetness yielded proof that they were born for immortality.

The memory of the just survives in Heaven.

One that would peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave.

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

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

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?

That best portion of a man's life, his little, nameless, unremembered acts of kindness and love.