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.

The flower that smells the sweetest is shy and lowly.

Small service is true service, while it lasts.

Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.

Mark the babe not long accustomed to this breathing world; One that hath barely learned to shape a smile, though yet irrational of soul, to grasp with tiny finger - to let fall a tear; And, as the heavy cloud of sleep dissolves, To stretch his limbs, becoming, as might seem. The outward functions of intelligent man.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

One impulse from a vernal wood May teach you more of man, Of moral evil and of good, Than all the sages can.