Proud Is The Spirit Of

His Native Home Deep Imag'd In His Soul.

There Is The Heat Of Love, The Pulsing Rush Of Longing, The Lover’s Whisper, Irresistible—magic To Make The Sanest Man Go Mad.

All Things Are In The Hand Of Heaven, And Folly, Eldest Of Jove's Daughters, Shuts Men's Eyes To Their Destruction. She Walks Delicately, Not On The Solid Earth, But Hovers Over The Heads Of Men To Make Them Stumble Or To Ensnare Them.

It Is Always The Latest Song That An Audience Applauds The Most.

Bursts As A Wave That From The Clouds Impends, And Swell'd With Tempests On The Ship Descends; White Are The Decks With Foam; The Winds Aloud Howl O'er The Masts, And Sing Through Every Shroud: Pale, Trembling, Tir'd, The Sailors Freeze With Fears; And Instant Death On Every Wave Appears.