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

The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

A deep distress has humanised my soul.

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

Happier of happy though I be, like them I cannot take possession of the sky, mount with a thoughtless impulse, and wheel there, one of a mighty multitude whose way and motion is a harmony and dance magnificent.

And I am happy when I sing.