God scatters beauty as he scatters flowers O'er the wide earth, and tells us all are ours. A hundred lights in every temple burn, And at each shrine I bend my knee in turn.

Such is our impatience, such our hatred of procrastination, to everything but the amendment of our practices and the adornment of our nature, one would imagine we were dragging Time along by force, and not he us.

Great men always pay deference to greater.

Democracy is always the work of kings. Ashes, which in themselves are sterile, fertilize the land they are cast upon.

Goodness does not more certainly make men happy than happiness makes them good.

O what a thing is age! Death without death's quiet.

Little men build up great ones, but the snow colossus soon melts; the good stand under the eye of God, and therefore stand.