Date: 1820

"Only a sense / Remains of them, like the omnipotence / Of music, when the inspired voice and lute / Languish, ere yet the responses are mute, / Which through the deep and labyrinthine soul, / Like echoes through long caverns, wind and roll."

— Shelley, Percy Bysshe (1792-1822)

Date: 1822-8

"When Raphael went, / His heavenly face the mirror of his mind, / His mind a temple for all lovely things / To flock to and inhabit"

— Rogers, Samuel (1763-1855)

Date: 1825

"How would it open every secret cell / Where cherished thought and fond remembrance sleep!"

— Barbauld, Anna Letitia [née Aikin] (1743-1825)

Date: 1842

"Regret came shivering through my veins, / And bound my tongue in iron chains; / My soul in prison seem'd to be / And ever must if torn from thee."

— Blamire, Susanna (1747-1794)

Date: 1842

"Absence cannot guard the cell / Where wayward thoughts are doom'd to dwell"

— Blamire, Susanna (1747-1794)

Date: 1842

"And ere the sentence left its hallow'd cave, / Would tell what thought was venturing next abroad. / Nor had Disguise in all her face or soul / One place to hide her poor and artful head; / Truth and her train had tenanted each cell, / And honest Friendship at the portal stood / To point or tell ...

— Blamire, Susanna (1747-1794)

Date: 1850

"The thirst of living praise, / Fit reverence for the glorious Dead, the sight / Of those long vistas, sacred catacombs, / Where mighty minds lie visibly entombed, / Have often stirred the heart of youth, and bred / A fervent love of rigorous discipline."

— Wordsworth, William (1770-1850)

Date: 1850

"My mind was at that time / A parti-coloured show of grave and gay, / Solid and light, short-sighted and profound; / Of inconsiderate habits and sedate, / Consorting in one mansion unreproved. "

— Wordsworth, William (1770-1850)

Date: 1850

"Why, gifted with such powers to send abroad / Her spirit, must it lodge in shrines so frail?"

— Wordsworth, William (1770-1850)

Date: 1857

"I ask'd to see what things the hollow brain / Behind environed: what high tragedy / In the dark secret chambers of her skull / Was acting"

— Keats, John (1795-1821)