Alas! how little can a moment show Of an eye where feeling plays In ten thousand dewy rays: A face o'er which a thousand shadows go!

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

The Poet, gentle creature as he is, Hath, like the Lover, his unruly times; His fits when he is neither sick nor well, Though no distress be near him but his own Unmanageable thoughts.

Meek Walton's heavenly memory.

Because the good old rule Sufficeth them,-the simple plan, That they should take who have the power, And they should keep who can.

Provoke The years to bring the inevitable yoke.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect