The bliss even of a moment still is bliss.
Heaven often smites in mercy, even when the blow is severest.
It ever is the marked propensity of restless and aspiring minds to look into the stretch of dark futurity.
Ah! happy is the man whose early lot Hath made him master of a furnish'd cot; Who trains the vine that round his window grows, And after setting sun his garden hoes; Whose wattled pails his own enclosure shield, Who toils not daily in another's field.
O mysterious Night! thou art not silent; many tongues halt thou.
I believe this earth on which we stand is but the vestibule to glorious mansions through which a moving crowd forever press.