I counsel thee, shut not thy heart, nor thy library.
To be sick is to enjoy monarchical prerogatives.
No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.
Mother's love grows by giving.
Science has succeeded to poetry, no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil?
Thus, when the lamp that lighted The traveller at first goes out, He feels awhile benighted, And looks around in fear and doubt. But soon, the prospect clearing, By cloudless starlight on he treads, And thinks no lamp so cheering As that light which Heaven sheds.