The heart-sick faintness of the hope delayed!
On his bold visage middle age Had slightly press'd its signet sage, Yet had not quench'd the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth: Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare.
A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.
Hope is brightest when it dawns from fears.
As good play for nothing, you know, as work for nothing.
There never will exist anything permanently noble and excellent in the character which is a stranger to resolute self-denial.