The bosom-weight, your stubborn gift, That no philosophy can lift.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

Let Nature be your teacher

The child is father of the man: And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety.

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!

A youth to whom was given So much of earth, so much of heaven.

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!