The Great Instrument Of Moral Good Is

Senseless Is The Breast And Cold Which Relenting Love Would Fold; Bloodless Are The Veins And Chill Which The Pulse Of Pain Did Fill; Every Little Living Nerve That From Bitter Words Did Swerve Round The Tortur'd Lips And Brow, Are Like Sapless Leaflets Now Frozen Upon December's Bough.

Less Oft Peace In Shelley's Mind, Than Calm In Waters Seen.

I Love All Waste And Solitary Places.

Dar'st Thou Amid The Varied Multitude To Live Alone, An Isolated Thing?

When Merciless Ambition, Or Mad Zeal, Has Led Two Hosts Of Dupes To Battlefield, That, Blind, They There May Dig Each Other's Graves, And Call The Sad Work Glory.