Tho' veiled in spires of myrtle wreath, Love is a sword that cuts its sheath, And thro' the clefts, itself has made, We spy the flashes of the Blade!… - Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war!

How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits Honour or wealth, with all his worth and pains! It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, If any man obtain that which he merits, Or any merit that which he obtains. . For shame, dear Friend! renounce this canting strain! … Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man? Three treasures, and ,
And , regular as infants' breath;
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,
, his , and the Angel .

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! Ye signs and wonders of the element! Utter forth ' God,' and fill the hills with praise!