This solitary Tree! a living thing Produced too slowly ever to decay; Of form and aspect too magnificent To be destroyed.

All men feel a habitual gratitude, and something of an honorable bigotry, for the objects which have long continued to please them.

Wisdom and spirit of the Universe!

Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world; One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear; And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.

We murder to dissect.

A deep distress has humanised my soul.

Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.