He too renounces his Creator,And forms all sense from senseless matter.Great wizard he! by magic spellsCan all things raise from cockle shells...O Doctor, change thy foolish motto,Or keep it for some lady’s .Else thy poor patients well may quake,If thou no more canst mend than make.

Organic life beneath the shoreless waves Was born and nurs'd in ocean's pearly caves; First forms minute, unseen by spheric glass, Move on the mud, or pierce the watery mass; These, as successive generations bloom, New powers acquire and larger limbs assume; Whence countless groups of vegetation spring, And breathing realms of fin and feet and wing.

It consists of a windmill sail placed horizontally like that of a smoak-jack, surrounded by an octagon tower... Upright pillars are connected together by oblique horizontal boards... at an angle of about 45 degrees... so as to form a complete octagon including the horizontal windmill sail near the top... The wind as it strikes... from whatever quarter it comes, is bent upwards and then strikes against the horizontal wind-sail. These horizontal boards... may... be made to turn upon an axis a little below their centres of gravity, so as to close themselves on that side of the octagon tower most distant from the wind. ...It was found on many trials by Mr. Edgeworth... and by myself, that the wind by being thus reverted upwards by a fixed planed board did not seem to lose any of its power. And as the height of the tower may be made twice as great as the diameter of the sail, there is reason to conclude that the power of this horizontal wind-sail may be considerably greater, than if the same sail was placed nearly vertically...

For if we may compare infinities, it would seem to require a greater infinity of power to cause the causes of effects, than to cause the effects themselves. This idea is analogous to the improving excellence observable in every part of the creation; such as in the progressive increase of the solid or habitable parts of the earth from water; and in the progressive increase of the wisdom and happiness of its inhabitants; and is consonant to the idea of our present situation being a state of probation, which by our exertion we may improve, and are consequently responsible for our actions.

Would it be too bold to imagine that, in the great length of time since the earth began to exist, perhaps millions of ages before the commencement of the history of mankind would it be too bold to imagine that all warm-blooded animals have arisen from one living filament, which the great First Cause endued with animality, with the power of acquiring new parts, attended with new propensities, directed by irritations, sensations, volitions and associations, and thus possessing the faculty of continuing to improve by its own inherent activity, and of delivering down these improvements by generation to its posterity, world without end!

The Pʀᴏᴛᴇᴜs-ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ woos his playful bride,To win the fair he tries a thousand forms, Basks on the sands, or gambols in the storms.A Dolphin now, his scaly sides he laves,And bears the sportive damsel on the waves;She strikes the cymbal as he moves along,And wondering Ocean listens to the song.—And now a spotted Pard the lover stalks,Plays round her steps, and guards her favour’d walks;As with white teeth he prints her hand, caress’d, And lays his velvet paw upon her breast,O’er his round face her snowy fingers strainThe silken knots, and fit the ribbon-rein.—And now a Swan, he spreads his plumy sails,And proudly glides before the fanning gales;Pleas’d on the flowery brink with graceful handShe waves her floating lover to the land;Bright shines his sinuous neck, with crimson beakHe prints fond kisses on her glowing cheek,Spreads his broad wings, elates his ebon crest,And clasps the beauty to his downy breast.

No radiant pearl which crested Fortune wears,No gem that twinkling hangs from Beauty's ears,Not the bright stars which Night's blue arch adorn,Nor rising suns that gild the vernal morn,Shine with such lustre as the tear that flowsDown Virtue's manly cheek for others' woes.

So on his Nɪɢʜᴛᴍᴀʀᴇ through the evening fogFlits the squab Fiend o’er fen, and lake, and bog;Seeks some love-wilder’d Maid with sleep oppress’d,Alights, and grinning sits upon her breast.—Such as of late amid the murky skyWas mark’d by Fᴜsᴇʟɪ’s poetic eye;Whose daring tints, with Sʜᴀᴋᴇsᴘᴇᴀʀ’s happiest grace,Gave to the airy phantom form and place.—Back o’er her pillow sinks her blushing head,Her snow-white limbs hang helpless from the bed;While with quick sighs, and suffocative breath,Her interrupted heart-pulse swims in death.—Then shrieks of captured towns, and widows’ tears,Pale lovers stretch’d upon their blood-stain’d biers,The headlong precipice that thwarts her flight,The trackless desert, the cold starless night,And stern-eye’d Murder with his knife behind,In dread succession agonize her mind.O’er her fair limbs convulsive tremors fleet,Start in her hands, and struggle in her feet;In vain to scream with quivering lips she tries,And strains in palsy’d lids her tremulous eyes;In vain she wills to run, fly, swim, walk, creep;The Wɪʟʟ presides not in the bower of Sʟᴇᴇᴘ.—On her fair bosom sits the Demon-ApeErect, and balances his bloated shape;Rolls in their marble orbs his Gorgon-eyes,And drinks with leathern ears her tender cries.

On Dᴏᴠᴇ’s green brink the fair Tʀᴇᴍᴇʟʟᴀ stood,And view’d her playful image in the flood;To each rude rock, lone dell, and echoing groveSung the sweet sorrows of her 𝘴𝘦𝘤𝘳𝘦𝘵 love.‘Oh, stay!—return!’—along the sounding shoreCry’d the sad Naiads,——she return’d no more!—Now girt with clouds the sullen Evening frown’d,And withering Eurus swept along the ground;The misty moon withdrew her horned light,And sunk with Hesper in the skirt of night;No dim electric streams, (the northern dawn,)With meek effulgence quiver’d o’er the lawn;No star benignant shot one transient rayTo guide or light the wanderer on her way.Round the dark craggs the murmuring whirlwinds blow,Woods groan above, and waters roar below;As o’er the steeps with pausing foot she moves,The pitying Dryads shriek amid their groves;She flies,—she stops,—she pants—she looks behind,And hears a demon howl in every wind.—As the bleak blast unfurls her fluttering vest,Cold beats the snow upon her shuddering breast;Through her numb’d limbs the chill sensations dart,And the keen ice bolt trembles at her heart.‘I sink, I fall! oh, help me, help!’ she cries,Her stiffening tongue the unfinish’d sound denies;Tear after tear adown her cheek succeeds,And pearls of ice bestrew the glittering meads;Congealing snows her lingering feet surround,Arrest her flight, and root her to the ground;With suppliant arms she pours the silent prayer;Her suppliant arms hang crystal in the air;Pellucid films her shivering neck o’erspread,Seal her mute lips, and silver o’er her head,Veil her pale bosom, glaze her lifted hands,And shrined in ice the beauteous statue stands.—Dᴏᴠᴇ’s azure nymphs on each revolving yearFor fair Tʀᴇᴍᴇʟʟᴀ shed the tender tear;With rush-wove crowns in sad procession move,And sound the sorrowing shell to hapless love.

Weak with nice sense, the chaste Mɪᴍᴏsᴀ stands,From each rude touch withdraws her timid hands;Oft as light clouds o’er-pass the Summer-glade,Alarm’d she trembles at the moving shade;And feels, alive through all her tender form,The whisper’d murmurs of the gathering storm;Shuts her sweet eye-lids to approaching night;And hails with freshen’d charms the rising light.Veil’d, with gay decency and modest pride,Slow to the mosque she moves, an eastern bride;There her soft vows unceasing love record,Queen of the bright seraglio of her Lord.—So sinks or rises with the changeful hourThe liquid silver in its glassy tower.So turns the needle to the pole it loves,With fine librations quivering as it moves.