Ancestral Voices Prophesying War.

Poor Little Foal Of An Oppressed Race! I Love The Languid Patience Of Thy Face.

Nature Never Deserts The Wise And Pure; No Plot So Narrow, Be But Nature There; No Waste So Vacant, But May Well Employ Each Faculty Of Sense, And Keep The Heart Awake To Love And Beauty.

The Fancy Is Indeed No Other Than A Mode Of Memory Emancipated From The Order Of Time And Space.

In Wonder All Philosophy Began, In Wonder It Ends, And Admiration Fill Up The Interspace; But The First Wonder Is The Offspring Of Ignorance, The Last Is The Parent Of Adoration.

A Poet Ought Not To Pick Nature's Pocket. Let Him Borrow, And So Borrow As To Repay By The Very Act Of Borrowing. Examine Nature Accurately, But Write From Recollection, And Trust More To The Imagination Than The Memory.