And who (in time) knows whither we may vent The treasure of our tongue? To what strange shores This gain of our best glory shall be sent T enrich unknowing nations with our stores? What worlds in the yet unformed Occident May come refind with th accents that are ours?2
Care-charmer Sleep, son of the sable Night, Brother to Death, in silent darkness born.
To Delia. Sonnet 51.
Note 1. The souls dark cottage, batterd and decayd, Lets in new light through chinks that Time has made. Edmund Waller: Verses upon his Divine Poesy. [back]
Note 2. Westward the course of empire takes its way.Bishop Berkeley: On the Prospect of Planting Arts and Learning in America. [back]