The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.

Inscribe all human effort with one word, artistry's haunting curse, the Incomplete!

What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up, And be discharged, and straight wound up anew? No! grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets: May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.

Men are not angels, neither are they brutes.

Boot, saddle, to horse, and away!

Are there not, dear Michael, Two points in the adventure of the diver,- One, when a beggar he prepares to plunge; One, when a prince he rises with his pearl? Festus, I plunge.

how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet