Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears; And humble cares, and delicate fears; A heart, the fountain of sweet tears; And love and thought and joy.

Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!

And when a damp Fell round the path of Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet; whence he blew Soul-animating strains,-alas! too few.

Dreams, books, are each a world.

We murder to dissect.

The light that never was, on sea or land; The consecration, and the Poet's dream.