The sightless Milton, with his hair Around his placid temples curled; And Shakespeare at his side,-a freight, If clay could think and mind were weight, For him who bore the world!

When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.

Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Stop thinking for once in your life!

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

Our birth is but a sleep and a forgetting; The Soul that rises with us, our life's Star, Hath had elsewhere its setting, And cometh from afar.