There is something in man which your science cannot satisfy.

Not what you possess but what you do with what you have, determines your true worth.

We call that fire of the black thunder-cloud "electricity," and lecture learnedly about it, and grind the like of it out of glass and silk: but what is it? What made it? Whence comes it? Whither goes it?

Man, it is not thy works, which are mortal, infinitely little, and the greatest no greater than the least, but only the spirit thou workest in, that can have worth or continuance.

The leafy blossoming present time springs from the whole past, remembered and unrememberable.

Might and right do differ frightfully from hour to hour, but then centuries to try it in, they are found to be identical.

Beautiful it is, and a gleam from the same eternal pole-star visible amid the destinies of men, that all talent, all intellect, is in the first plane moral. What a world were this otherwise!