Place me on Sunium’s marbled steep — Where nothing, save the waves and I, May hear our mutual murmurs sweep; There, swan-like, let me sing and die: A… - Lord Byron

It is the hour when from the boughs The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows Seem sweet in every whisper'd word.

But suppose it past, — suppose one of these men, as I have seen them meagre with famine, sullen with despair, careless of a life which your lordships are perhaps about to value at something less than the price of a stocking-frame ; suppose this man surrounded by those children for whom he is unable to procure bread at the hazard of his existence, about to be torn for ever from a family which he lately supported in peaceful industry, and which it is not his fault than he can no longer so support; suppose this man — and there are ten thousand such from whom you may select your victims, — dragged into court to be tried for this new offence, by this new law, — still there are two things wanting to convict and condemn him, and these are, in my opinion, twelve butchers for a jury, and a Jefferies for a judge!

What else can joy be, but the spreading joy?