I give thee all,-I can no more, Though poor the off'ring be; My heart and lute are all the store That I can bring to thee.
In every thing that relates to science, I am a whole Encyclopaedia behind the rest of the world.
The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion.
Who has not felt how sadly sweet The dream of home, the dream of home, Steals o'er the heart, too soon to fleet, When far o'er sea or land we roam?
A poor relation—is the most irrelevant thing in nature.
Gluttony and surfeiting are no proper occasions for thanksgiving.
Science has succeeded to poetry, no less in the little walks of children than with men. Is there no possibility of averting this sore evil?
As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see, So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion, Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee. As still to the star of its worship, though clouded, The needle points faithfully o'er the dim sea, So dark when I roam in this wintry world shrouded, The hope of my spirit turns trembling to Thee.
When I consider how little of a rarity children are -- that every street and blind alley swarms with them -- that the poorest people commonly have them in most abundance -- that there are few marriages that are not blest with at least one of these bargains -- how often they turn out ill, and defeat the fond hopes of their parents, taking to vicious courses, which end in poverty, disgrace, the gallows, etc. -- I cannot for my life tell what cause for pride there can possibly be in having them.
Our spirits grow gray before our hairs.
A Persian's heaven is eas'ly made: 'T is but black eyes and lemonade.
There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.
Separate from the pleasure of your company, I don't much care if I never see another mountain in my life.
The good things of life are not to be had singly, but come to us with a mixture; like a school-boy's holiday, with a task affixed to the tail of it.
In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.
He might have proved a useful adjunct, if not an ornament to society.
Shut not thy purse-strings always against painted distress.
The red-letter days, now become, to all intents and purposes, dead-letter days.
When true hearts lie wither'd And fond ones are flown, Oh, who would inhabit This bleak world alone?
The light that lies In woman's eyes.
Oh, breathe not his name! let it sleep in the shade, Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid
Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.
There was a little man, and he had a little soul; And he said, Little Soul, let us try, try, try!
A clear fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour of the game.
The laws of Pluto's kingdom know small difference between king and cobbler, manager and call-boy; and, if haply your dates of life were conterminant, you are quietly taking your passage, cheek by cheek (O ignoble levelling of Death) with the shade of some recently departed candle-snuffer.
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