While childhood, and while dreams, producing childhood, shall be left, imagination shall not have spread her holy wings totally to fly the earth.

How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?

To pile up honey upon sugar, and sugar upon honey, to an interminable tedious sweetness.

I allow no hot-beds in the gardens of Parnassus.

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.

I toiled after it, sir, as some men toil after virtue.

Beholding heaven, and feeling hell.