Rich in saving common-sense, And, as the greatest only are, In his simplicity sublime.

The folly of all follies is to be love sick for a shadow.

The noonday quiet holds the hill.

Virtue!--to be good and just-- Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix'd with cunning sparks of hell.

The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together.

He is all fault who has no fault at all.

Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls; 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.