Whose Lenient Sorrows Find Relief, Whose Joys

The Rose Is Fairest When 't Is Budding New, And Hope Is Brightest When It Dawns From Fears. The Rose Is Sweetest Wash'd With Morning Dew, And Love Is Loveliest When Embalm'd In Tears.

Unless A Tree Has Borne Blossoms In Spring, You Will Vainly Look For Fruit On It In Autumn.

We Are Like The Herb Which Flourisheth Most When It Is Most Trampled On.

Land Of My Sires! What Mortal Hand Can E'er Untie The Filial Band That Knits Me To Thy Rugged Strand!

Ridicule, The Weapon Of All Others Most Feared By Enthusiasts Of Every Description, And Which From Its Predominance Over Such Minds, Often Checks What Is Absurd, And Fully As Often Smothers That Which Is Noble.