He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men.

thus men forgot that all deities reside in the human breast.

He who would do good to another must do it in minute particulars.

Pity would be no more, If we did not make somebody poor. Mercy no more could be, If all were happy as we.

Nature in darkness groans and men are bound to sullen contemplation in the night: restless they turn on beds of sorrow; in their inmost brain feeling the crushing wheels, they rise, they write the bitter words of stern philosophy and knead the bread of knowledge with tears and groans.

He who does not imagine in stronger and better lineaments, and in stronger and better light than his perishing and mortal eye can see, does not imagine at all.

The hand of Vengeance found the Bed To which the Purple Tyrant fled The iron hand crush'd the tyrant's head And became Tyrant in his stead.