Let the moon shine on the in thy solitary walk; and let the misty mountain-winds be free to blow against thee.

Nature never did betray the heart that loved her.

Men are we, and must grieve when even the shade Of that which once was great is passed away.

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

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

A Briton even in love should be A subject, not a slave!

She dwelt among the untrodden ways Beside the springs of Dove, A maid whom there were none to praise And very few to love.