T’was Spring, t’was Summer, all was gay Now Autumn bears a cloud brow The flowers of Spring are swept way And Summer fruits desert the bough.
Alas, regardless of their doom, the little victims play! No sense have they of ills to come nor care beyond today.
We frolic while ’tis May.
Bright-eyed Fancy, hov’ring o’er, Scatters from her pictured urn Thoughts that breathe and words that burn.
They hear a voice in every wind, And snatch a fearful joy.
Some village Hampden, that with dauntless breast The little tyrant of his fields withstood, Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell guiltless of his country’s blood.
Men will believe anything at all provided they are under no obligation to believe it.
And truth severe, by fairy fiction drest.
There are certain scenes that would awe an atheist into belief without the help of any other argument.
Ye towers of Julius, London’s lasting shame, With many a foul and midnight murder fed.
Daughter of Jove, relentless power, Thou tamer of the human breast, Whose iron scourge and tort’ring hour The bad affright, afflict the best!
Ah, tell them they are men!
Beyond the limits of a vulgar fate, Beneath the good how far,-but far above the great.
The still small voice of gratitude.
E’en from the tomb the voice of nature cries, E’en in our ashes live their wonted fires.
And hie him home, at evening’s close, To sweet repast and calm repose.
Some bold adventurers disdain The limits of their little reign, And unknown regions date descry.
From Helicon’s harmonious springs A thousand rills their mazy progress take.
One principal characteristic of vice in the present age is the contempt of fame.
England, so long mistress of the sea, Where winds and waves confess her sovereignty, Her ancient triumphs yet on high shall bear And reign the sovereign of the conquered air.