But trailing clouds of glory do we come, From God, who is our home: Heaven lies about us in our infancy!.

A multitude of causes unknown to former times are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor.

One with more of soul in his face than words on his tongue.

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

Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn

Of friends, however humble, scorn not one.

Bliss it was in that dawn to be alive But to be young was very heaven.