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.

Oh swiftly glides the bonnie boat, Just parted from the shore, And to the fisher's chorus-note Soft moves the dipping oar.

A good man's prayers will from the deepest dungeon climb heaven's height, and bring a blessing down.

It ever is the marked propensity of restless and aspiring minds to look into the stretch of dark futurity.

I can bear scorpion's stings, tread fields of fire, in frozen gulfs of cold eternal lie, be tossed aloft through tracts of endless void, but cannot live in shame.

A willing heart adds feather to the heel.

I believe this earth on which we stand is but the vestibule to glorious mansions through which a moving crowd forever press.