Glory, like the phoenix 'midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs.

Such hath it been--shall be--beneath the sun The many still must labour for the one.

Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.

There is music in all things, if men had ears.

War, war is still the cry,-"war even to the knife!"

In solitude, when we are least alone.