"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

If the time should ever come when what is now called Science, thus famliarised to men, shall be ready to put on, as it were, a form of flesh and blood, the Poet will lend his divine spirit to the aid the transfiguration, and will welcome the Being thus produced, as a dear and genuine inmate of the household of man.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind--But how could I forget thee?

Love betters what is best

A perfect woman, nobly planned, To warn, to comfort, and command; And yet a Spirit still, and bright With something of angelic light