And, like some low and mournful spell

Great faith it needs, according to my view, To trust in that which never could be true.

He loved his kind, but sought the love of few, And valued old opinions more than new.

I'm king of the dead—and I make my throne On a monument slab of marble cold; And my scepter of rule is the spade I hold: Come they from cottage or come they from hall, Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all! Let them loiter in pleasure or …

The mountain rill Seeks with no surer flow the far bright sea, Than my unchang'd affections flow to thee.

Flowers are Love's truest language.

Pure and undimmed, thy angel smile Is mirrored on my dreams, Like evening's sunset-girded isle Upon her shadowed streams: And o'er my thoughts thy vision floats, Like melody of spring-bird, notes;