In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

I have heard men talk about the blessings of freedom," he said to himself, "but I wish any wise man would teach me what use to make of it now that I have it.

I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.

My hope, my heaven, my trust must be, My gentle guide, in following thee.

Each age has deemed the new-born year the fittest time for festal cheer.

Do not Christians and Heathens, and Jews and Gentiles, and poets and philosophers, unite in allowing the starry influences?

Treason seldom dwells with courage.