The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
Truth takes no account of centuries.
Blessings be with them, and eternal praise, Who gave us nobler loves, and nobler cares!- The Poets, who on earth have made us heirs Of truth and pure delight by heavenly lays.
The memory of the just survives in Heaven.
Sensations sweet, Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart.
As high as we have mounted in delight, In our dejection do we sink as low.