Ah! never shall the land forget.

But 'neath yon crimson tree Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame, Nor mark, within its roseate canopy, Her blush of maiden shame.

A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.

Difficulty is the nurse of greatness.

All that tread, the globe are but a handful to the tribes, that slumber in its bosom.

All great poets have been men of great knowledge.

Is not thy home among the flowers?