Is it not odd that the only generous person I ever knew, who had money to be generous with, should be a stockbroker.

There is no real wealth but the labour of man.

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song In sorrow.

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing, The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying, And the Year On the earth her death-bed, in a shroud of leaves dead, Is lying. . . .

I am the daughter of Earth and Water, And the nursling of the Sky; I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores; I change, but I cannot die.

If certain Critics were as clearsighted as they are malignant, how great would be the benefit to be derived from their writings!

Revenge is the naked idol of the worship of a semi-barbarous age.