A thousand years may scare form a state. An hour may lay it in ruins.
Love rules the camp, the court, the grove - for love is Heaven, and Heaven is love.
So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.
There is no instinct like that of the heart.
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
And hold up to the sun my little taper.