The unconquerable pang of despised love.

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

Meek Nature's evening comment on the shows That for oblivion take their daily birth From all the fuming vanities of earth.

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

O Reader! had you in your mind Such stores as silent thought can bring, O gentle Reader! you would find A tale in everything.

He murmurs near the running brooks A music sweeter than their own.

... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.