Poetry Is Thoughts That Breathe, And Words

To Contemplation's Sober Eye. / Such Is The Race Of Man.

Where Once My Careless Childhood Strayed, / A Stranger Yet To Pain.

Where'er The Oak's Thick Branches Stretch A Broader Browner Shade; Where'er The Rude And Moss-grown Beech O'er-canopies The Glade, Beside Some Water's Rushy Brink With Me The Muse Shall Sit, And Think.

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

Ye Towers Of Julius, London's Lasting Shame, With Many A Foul And Midnight Murder Fed.