I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.

The keenest pangs the wretched find Are rapture to the dreary void, The leafless desert of the mind, The waste of feelings unemployed.

I cannot help thinking that the menace of Hell makes as many devils as the severe penal codes of inhuman humanity make villains.

And what is writ is writ - / Would it were worthier!

I awoke one morning and found myself famous.

It is useless to tell one not to reason but to believe; you might as well tell a man not to wake but sleep.

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place, With one fair spirit for my minister