Some Minds Seem Almost To Create Themselves,

The Paternal Hearth, The Rallying-place Of The Affections.

There Is A Sacredness In Tears

Society Is Like A Lawn, Where Every Roughness Is Smoothed, Every Bramble Eradicated, And Where The Eye Is Delighted By The Smiling Verdure Of A Velvet Surface

It's A Fair Wind That Blew Men To Ale.

There Rise Authors Now And Then, Who Seem Proof Against The Mutability Of Language, Because They Have Rooted Themselves In The Unchanging Principles Of Human Nature.