One more royal trait properly belongs to the poet. I mean his cheerfulness, without which no man can be a poet,--for beauty is his aim. He loves virtue, not for its obligation, but for its grace; he delights in the world, in man, in woman, for the lovely light that sparkles from them. Beauty, the spirit of joy and hilarity, he sheds over the universe.

It is one light which beams out of a thousand stars. It is one soul which animates all men.

Every promise of the soul has innumerable fulfillments; each of its joys ripens into a new want.

The great man is not convulsible or tormentable; events pass over him without much impression.

And in cases where profound conviction has been wrought, the eloquent man is he who is no beautiful speaker, but who is inwardly drunk with a certain belief. It agitates and tears him, and perhaps almost bereaves him of the power of articulation.

We must not tamper with the organic motion of the soul.

The secrets of life are not shown except to sympathy and likeness.