The harp that once through Tara's halls The soul of music shed, Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls As if that soul were fled. So sleeps the pride of former days, So glory's thrill is o'er; And hearts that once beat high for praise Now feel that pulse no more.

Take all the pleasures of all the spheres, And multiply each through endless years,- One minute of heaven is worth them all.

All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

A man may do very well with a very little knowledge, and scarce be found out in mixed company; everybody is so much more ready to produce his own, than to call for a display of your acquisitions.

Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.

My only books Were woman's looks,- And folly 's all they 've taught me.

There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.