In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts bring sad thoughts to the mind.
O dearer far than light and life are dear.
Sweet is the lore which Nature brings; Our meddling intellect Mis-shapes the beauteous forms of things: We murder to dissect.
Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.
Spires whose "silent finger points to heaven."
Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.