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.

Oh stay! oh stay! Joy so seldom weaves a chain Like this to-night, that oh 't is pain To break its links so soon.

Damn the age. I'll write for antiquity.

The teller of a mirthful tale has latitude allowed him. We are content with less than absolute truth.

Anything awful makes me laugh. I misbehaved once at a funeral.

What have I gained by health? Intolerable dullness. What by mode meals? A total blank.

New Year's Day is every man's birthday.