O leave this barren spot to me! Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree.

the soul of conversation is sympathy

O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair?

The popularity of that baby-faced boy, who possessed not even the elements of a good actor, was a hallucination in the public mind, and a disgrace to our theatrical history.

On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.

The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.

Coming events cast their shadows before.