Hands That The Rod Of Empire Might

Bright-eyed Fancy, Hov'ring O'er, Scatters From Her Pictured Urn Thoughts That Breathe And Words That Burn.

O'er Her Warm Cheek, And Rising Bosom, Move The Bloom Of Young Desire And Purple Light Of Love.

Ruin Seize Thee, Ruthless King! Confusion On Thy Banners Wait! Though Fann'd By Conquest's Crimson Wing, They Mock The Air With Idle State.

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.

Sweet Is The Breath Of Vernal Shower,/ The Bee's Collected Treasure Sweet,/ Sweet Music's Melting Fall, But Sweeter Yet/ The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.