Rapine, avarice, expense, This is idolatry; and these we adore; Plain living and high thinking are no more.

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous boy, The sleepless soul that perished in his pride; Of him who walked in glory and in joy, Following his plough, along the mountain-side. By our own spirits we are deified; We Poets in our youth begin in gladness, But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

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.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

Serene will be our days, and bright and happy will our nature be, when love is an unerring light, and joy its own security.

poetry is the breath and finer spirit of knowledge

Therefore am I still a lover of the meadows and the woods, and mountains; and of all that we behold from this green earth.