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.
Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress.
Literature is a bad crutch, but a good walking-stick.
A poor relation—is the most irrelevant thing in nature.
May my last breath be drawn through a pipe, and exhaled in a jest.
The light that lies In woman's eyes.