Or shipwrecked, kindles on the coast False fires, that others may be lost.

The child is the father of man.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

That mighty orb of song, The divine Milton.

Babylon, Learned and wise, hath perished utterly, Nor leaves her speech one word to aid the sigh That would lament her.

In hours of weariness, sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart; And passing even into my purer mind, With tranquil restoration: - feelings, too, Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps, As have no slight or trivial influence On that best portion of a good man's life, His little, nameless, unremembered acts Of kindness and of love.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.