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O solitude, where are the charms That sages have seen in thy face? Better dwell in the midst of alarms, Than reign in this horrible place.

The path of sorrow, and that path alone, Leads to the lands where sorrow is unknown.

Spring hangs her infant blossoms on the trees, Rock'd in the cradle of the western breeze.

A story, in which native humour reigns, Is often useful, always entertains; A graver fact, enlisted on your side, May furnish illustration, well applied; But sedentary weavers of long tales Give me the fidgets, and my patience fails.

Me therefore studious of laborious ease.

Hast thou not learn'd what thou art often told, A truth still sacred, and believed of old, That no success attends on spears and swords Unblest, and that the battle is the Lord's?

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds.

Words learn'd by rote a parrot may rehearse, But talking is not always to converse, Not more distinct from harmony divine The constant creaking of a country sign.

Now stir the fire, and close the shudders fast, Let fall the curtains, wheel the sofa round, And while the bubbling and loud-hissing urn Throws up a steamy column, and the cups, That cheer but not inebriate, wait on each, So let us welcome peaceful evening in.

Seek to delight, that they may mend mankind. And, while they captivate, inform the mind.

The sounding jargon of the schools.

And the tear that is wiped with a little address, May be follow'd perhaps by a smile.

Call'd to the temple of impure delight He that abstains, and he alone, does right. If a wish wander that way, call it home; He cannot long be safe whose wishes roam.

In indolent vacuity of thought.

No tree in all the grove but has its charms, Though each its hue peculiar.

Some boundless contiguity of shade.

We bear our shades about us; self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.

We bear our shades about us; self-deprived Of other screen, the thin umbrella spread, And range an Indian waste without a tree.

The earth was made so various, that the mind Of desultory man, studious of change And pleased with novelty, might be indulged.

Variety's the very spice of life, That gives it all its flavour.