The sunshine is a glorious birth; But yet I know, where'er I go, That there hath passed away a glory from the earth.

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

Books! tis a dull and endless strife: Come, hear the woodland linnet, How sweet his music! on my life, There's more of wisdom in it.

Where the statue stood Of Newton, with his prism and silent face, The marble index of a mind forever Voyaging through strange seas of thought alone.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.

Father! - to God himself we cannot give a holier name.