Visions Of Glory, Spare My Aching Sight!

For Who, To Dumb Forgetfulness A Prey, This Pleasing Anxious Being E'er Resign'd, Left The Warm Precincts Of The Cheerful Day, Nor Cast One Longing Ling'ring Look Behind?

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.

Daughter Of Jove, Relentless Power, Thou Tamer Of The Human Breast, Whose Iron Scourge And Tort'ring Hour The Bad Affright, Afflict The Best!

Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife Their Sober Wishes Never Learn'd To Stray; Along The Cool Sequester'd Vale Of Life They Kept The Noiseless Tenor Of Their Way.

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