Alas!... what is it, valiant knight, save an offering of sacrifice to a demon of vain glory, and a passing through the fire of Moloch? What remains to you as a prize of all the blood you have spilled, of all the travail and pain you have endured, of all the tears which your deeds have caused, when death hath broken the strong man's spear, and overtaken the speed of his war-horse?

Treason seldom dwells with courage.

If a faultless poem could be produced, I am satisfied it would tire the critics themselves; and annoy the whole reading world with the spleen.

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

When a man has not a good reason for doing a thing, he has one good reason for letting it alone.

The heart-sick faintness of the hope delayed!

There is a southern proverb - fine words butter no parsnips.