To Brisk Notes In Cadence Beating, Glance

He Pass'd The Flaming Bounds Of Place And Time: The Living Throne, The Sapphire Blaze, Where Angels Tremble While They Gaze, He Saw; But Blasted With Excess Of Light, Closed His Eyes In Endless Night.

How Low, How Little Are The Proud, How Indigent The Great!

Each In His Narrow Cell Forever Laid, The Rude Forefathers Of The Hamlet Sleep.

I Shall Be But A Shrimp Of An Author.

In Buskined Measures Move Pale Grief And Pleasing Pain, With Horror, Tyrant Of The Throbbing Breast.