Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.

To me the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.

But hushed be every thought that springs From out the bitterness of things.

The clouds that gather round the setting sun, Do take a sober colouring from an eye, That hath kept watch o'er man's mortality.

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!

There is creation in the eye.