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

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

The feather, whence the pen Was shaped that traced the lives of these good men, Dropped from an angel's wing.

The budding rose above the rose full blown.

Earth helped him with the cry of blood.

If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.

Not in Utopia, -- subterranean fields, --Or some secreted island, Heaven knows whereBut in the very world, which is the worldOf all of us, -- the place where in the endWe find our happiness, or not at all