Blest Is He Whose Heart Is The

It Is Fine To Stand Upon Some Lofty Mountain Thought, And Feel The Spirit Stretch Into A View.

Music Lives Within Thy Lips Like A Nightingale In Roses.

None But God Can Fill The Perfect Whole.

Corruption Springs From Light: 'tis One Same Power Creates, Preserves, Destroys; Matter Whereon It Works, On E'er Self-transmutative Form, Common To Now The Living, Now The Dead.

Burn To Be Great, Pay Not Thy Praise To Lofty Things Alone. The Plains Are Everlasting As The Hills, The Bard Cannot Have Two Pursuits; Aught Else Comes On The Mind With The Like Shock As Though Two Worlds Had Gone To War, And Met In Air.