What Female Heart Can Gold Despise? What

Sorrow's Faded Form, And Solitude Behind.

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.

The Hues Of Bliss More Brightly Glow, Chastis'd By Sabler Tints Of Woe.

And Hie Him Home, At Evening's Close, To Sweet Repast And Calm Repose.

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.