This is to be along; this, this is solitude!
Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.
Smiles form the channels of a future tear.
Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs.
My hair is grey, but not with years, Nor grew it white In a single night, As men's have grown from sudden fears.