Oh, blank confusion! true epitome Of what the mighty City is herself, To thousands upon thousands of her sons, Living amid the same perpetual whirl Of trivial objects, melted and reduced To one identity.

Knowing that Nature never did betray the heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege, through all the years of this our life, to lead from joy to joy.

Look at the fate of summer flowers, which blow at daybreak, droop ere even-song.

Sweet Mercy! to the gates of heaven This minstrel lead, his sins forgiven; The rueful conflict, the heart riven With vain endeavour, And memory of Earth's bitter leaven Effaced forever.

Poetry is most just to its divine origin, when it administers the comforts and breathes the thoughts of religion.

The silence that is in the starry sky, / The sleep that is among the lonely hills.

Though inland far we be, Our souls have sight of that immortal sea Which brought us hither.