Honest men are the gentlemen of nature.

We tell our triumphs to the crowds, but our own hearts are the sole confidants of our sorrows.

Come, Death, and snatch me from disgrace.

There is no past, as long as books shall live. Books make the past our heritage and our home.

Genius in the poet, like the nomad of Arabia, ever a wanderer, still ever makes a home where the well or the palm-tree invites it to pitch the tent. Perpetually passing out of himself and his own positive circumstantial condition of being into other hearts and into other conditions, the poet obtains his knowledge of human life by transporting his own life into the lives of others.

Earnest men never think in vain, though their thoughts may be errors.

Beside one deed of guilt, how blest is guiltless woe!