Immortality—dazzling idea! who first imagined thee! Was it some jolly burgher of Nuremburg, who with night-cap on his head, and white clay pipe in mouth, sat on some pleasant summer evening before his door, and reflected in all his comfort, that it would be right pleasant, if, with unextinguishable pipe, and endless breath, he could thus vegetate onwards for a blessed eternity? Or was it a lover, who in the arms of his loved one, thought the immortality-thought, and that because he could think and feel naught beside!—Love! Immortality!

Lyrical poetry is much the same an every age, as the songs of the nightingales in every spring-time.

Sleep is lovely, death is better still, not to have been born is of course the miracle.

Sleep is good, death is better; but of course, the best thing would to have never been born at all.

The beauteous eyes of the spring's fair night With comfort are downward gazing.

It is only kindred griefs that draw forth our tears, and each weeps really for himself.

As the stars are the glory of the sky, so great men are the glory of their country, yea, of the whole earth. The hearts of great men are the stars of earth; and doubtless when one looks down from above upon our planet, these hearts are seen to send forth, a silvery light just like the stars of heaven.