No motion has she now, no force; she neither hears nor sees; rolled around in earth's diurnal course, with rocks, and stones, and trees.

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard... Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.

Wild is the music of autumnal winds Amongst the faded woods.

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.

Heaven lies about us in our infancy! Shades of the prison-house begin to close upon the growing boy.

We Poets in our youth begin in gladness; But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

When from our better selves we have too long been parted by the hurrying world, and droop. Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired, how gracious, how benign is solitude.