The most mortifying infirmity in human nature, to feel in ourselves, or to contemplate in another, is perhaps cowardice.
Oh, the pleasure of eating my dinner alone!
The trumpet does not more stun you by its loudness, than a whisper teases you by its provoking inaudibility.
Mother's love grows by giving.
All people have their blind side-their superstitions.
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.