Some Bold Adventurers Disdain The

The Language Of The Age Is Never The Language Of Poetry, Except Among The French, Whose Verse, Where The Thought Or Image Does Not Support It, Differs In Nothing From Prose.

The Still Small Voice Of Gratitude.

Scatter Plenty O'er A Smiling Land.

Youth Smiles Without Any Reason. It Is One Of Its Chiefest Charms.

The Curfew Tolls The Knell Of Parting Day, The Lowing Herd Winds Slowly O'er The Lea, The Ploughman Homeward Plods His Weary Way, And Leaves The World To Darkness And To Me.