There are few cases in which mere popularity should be considered a proper test of merit; but the case of song-writing is, I think, one of the few.

Keeping time, time, time, In a sort of Runic rhyme, To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells, From the bells, bells, bells.

That single thought is enough. The impulse increases to a wish, the wish to a desire, the desire to an uncontrollable longing, and the longing (to the deep regret and mortification of the speaker, and in defiance of all consequences,) is indulged.

It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain, but, once conceived, it haunted me day and night.

No murmur arose from its bed, and so gently it wandered along, that the pearly pebbles upon which we loved to gaze, far down within its bosom, stirred not at all, but lay in a motionless content, each in its own old station, shining on gloriously forever.

The death of a beautiful woman, is unquestionably the most poetical topic in the world.

It is a happiness to wonder; -- it is a happiness to dream.