Tis said, fantastic ocean doth enfold The likeness of whate'er on land is seen.

A deep distress hath humanised my Soul.

In heaven above, And earth below, they best can serve true gladness Who meet most feelingly the calls of sadness.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

As generations come and go, Their arts, their customs, ebb and flow; Fate, fortune, sweep strong powers away, And feeble, of themselves, decay.

Every great and original writer, in proportion as he is great and original, must himself create the taste by which he is to be relished.

For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.

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

The human mind is capable of excitement without the application of gross and violent stimulants; and he must have a very faint perception of its beauty and dignity who does not know this.