Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.

To live a life half dead, a living death.

Our cure, to be no more; sad cure!

Methinks I see in my mind a noble and puissant nation rousing herself like a strong man after sleep, and shaking her invincible locks; methinks I see her as an eagle mewing her mighty youth, and kindling her undazzled eyes at the full midday beam.

Praise from an enemy smells of craft.

As children gath'ring pebbles on the shore. Or if I would delight my private hours With music or with poem, where so soon As in our native language can I find That solace?

He touch'd the tender stops of various quills, With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.