The childhood shows the man, as morning shows the day.

Death is the golden key that opens the palace of eternity.

Th' ethereal mould Incapable of stain would soon expel Her mischief, and purge off the baser fire, Victorious. Thus repuls'd, our final hope Is flat despair.

Confidence imparts a wonderful inspiration to the possessor.

O welcome pure-eyed Faith, white handed Hope, Thou hovering angel girt with golden wings.

The stars, that nature hung in heaven, and filled their lamps with everlasting oil, give due light to the misled and lonely traveller.

He who would not be frustrate of his hope to write well hereafter in laudable things ought himself to be a true poem.