His high endeavours are an inward light That makes the path before him always bright.

Ah, what a warning for a thoughtless man, Could field or grove, could any spot of earth, Show to his eye an image of the pangs Which it hath witnessed,-render back an echo Of the sad steps by which it hath been trod!

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books, Or surely you 'll grow double! Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks! Why all this toil and trouble?

O dearer far than light and life are dear.

Poetry has never brought me in enough money to buy shoestrings.

The common growth of Mother Earth Suffices me,-her tears, her mirth, Her humblest mirth and tears.

... and we shall find A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.