There sit the sainted sage, the bard divine, / The few, whom genius gave to shine / Through every unborn age, and undiscovered clime. |
They hear a voice in every wind, / And snatch a fearful joy. |
Thought would destroy their paradise. |
To Contemplation's sober eye. / Such is the race of Man. |
Too poor for a bribe and too proud to importune, he had not the method of making a fortune |
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight, / Ye unborn ages, crowd not on my soul! |
Visions of glory, spare my aching sight... |
We've got 10 seniors starting on the offense, and I'm the only junior, so I was a little nervous before the game. But I got comfortable after the first drive and we played well. |
Weave the warp, and weave the woof, / The winding-sheet of Edward's race. / Give ample room, and verge enough / The characters of hell to trace. |
What female heart can gold despise? / What cat's averse to fish? |
Where once my careless childhood strayed,/ A stranger yet to pain. |
Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault / The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. |
Who foremost now delight to cleave / With pliant arm thy glassy wave? |
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,/ With many a foul and midnight murther fed. |