And he is oft the wisest manWho is not wise at all.

The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty born of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face.

A genial hearth, a hospitable board, and a refined rusticity.

The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.

Where is it now, the glory and the dream?

Science appears but what in truth she is, Not as our glory and our absolute boast, But as a succedaneum, and a prop To our infirmity.

Thought and theory must precede all action, that moves to salutary purposes. Yet action is nobler in itself than either thought or theory.