Providence has a wild, rough, incalculable road to its end, and it is of no use to try to whitewash its huge, mixed instrumentalities, or to dress up that terrific benefactor in a clean shirt and white neckcloth of a student in divinity.

There the great Planter plants Of fruitful worlds the grain, And with a million spells enchants The souls that walk in pain.

Hast thou named all the birds without a gun?

A man will be eloquent if you give him good wine.

Let us answer a book of ink with a book of flesh and blood.

This knot of nature is so well tied that nobody was ever cunning enough to find the two ends.

Go, speed the stars of Thought On to their shining goals; - The sower scatters broad his seed, The wheat thou strew'st be souls.