On The Tawny Sands And Shelves Trip

O Sun, To Tell Thee How I Hate Thy Beams That Bring To My Remembrance From What State I Fell, How Glorious Once Above Thy Sphere.

Infinity Is A Dark Illimitable Ocean, Without Bound.

The Love-lorn Nightingale Nightly To Thee Her Sad Song Mourneth Well.

Or If Virtue Feeble Were, Heav'n Itself Would Stoop To Her.

He Who Freely Magnifies What Hath Been Nobly Done, And Fears Not To Declares As Freely What Might Be Done Better, Gives Ye The Best Covenant Of His Fidelity.