He died, Who was the Sire of an immortal strain, Blind, old, and lonely. - Percy Bysshe Shelley

Nature rejects the monarch, not the man; The subject, not the citizen; for kings And subjects, mutual foes, forever play A losing game into each other's hands, Whose stakes are vice and misery. The man Of virtuous soul commands not, nor obeys. Power, like a desolating pestilence, Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience, Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth, Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame A mechanized automaton.

He is made one with Nature: there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder, to the song of night's sweet bird.

With hue like that when some great painter dips His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse.