Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates, and men decay. Princes and lords may flourish or may fade,- A breath can make them, as a breath has made; But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.

[T]here are depths of thousands of miles which are hidden from our inquiry. The only tidings we have from those unfathomable regions are by means of volcanoes, those burning mountains that seem to discharge their materials from the lowest abysses of the earth.

Every want that stimulates the breast becomes a source of pleasure when redressed.

In all the silent manliness of grief.

Hope, like the gleaming taper

And fools who came to scoff remain'd to pray.

You will always find that those are most apt to boast of national merit, who have little or not merit of their own to depend on . . .