The Present, Like A Note In Music,

Was Genius Ever Ungrateful? Mere Talents Are Dry Leaves, Tossed Up And Down By Gusts Of Passion, And Scattered And Swept Away; But, Genius Lies On The Bosom Of Memory, And Gratitude At Her Feet.

He Who Brings Ridicule To Bear Against Truth Finds In His Hand A Blade Without A Hilt.

Ah What Avails The Sceptred Race, Ah What The Form Divine! What Every Virtue, Every Grace! Rose Aylmer, All Were Thine. Rose Aylmer, Whom These Wakeful Eyes May Weep, But Never See, A Night Of Memories And Of Sighs I Consecrate To Thee.

The Tomb Is The Pedestal Of Greatness. I Make A Distinction Between God's Great And The King's Great.

Consciousness Of Error Is, To A Certain Extent, A Consciousness Of Understanding; And Correction Of Error Is The Plainest Proof Of Energy And Mastery.