Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.
Look back, and smile on perils past.
Mystery has great charms for womanhood.
Wounds sustained for the sake of conscience carry their own balsam with the blow.
We are like the herb which flourisheth most when it is most trampled on.
He hath a share of man's intelligence, but no share of man's falsehood.