Smiles form the channels of a future tear.

I would rather have a nod from an American, than a snuff- box from an emperor.

I speak not of men's creeds—they rest between Man and his Maker.

Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

So much alarmed that she is quite alarming

He had kept The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.