Whose Lines Are Mottoes Of

Triumphal Arch, That Fill'st The Sky When Storms Prepare To Part, I Ask Not Proud Philosophy To Teach Me What Thou Art.

Our Land, The First Garden Of Liberty's Tree-- It Has Been, And Shall Be, The Land Of The Free.

He Scorn'd His Own, Who Felt Another's Woe.

On The Green Banks Of Shannon, When Sheelah Was Nigh, No Blithe Irish Lad Was So Happy As I, No Harp Like My Own Could So Cheerily Play, And Wherever I Went Was My Poor Dog Tray.

How Delicious Is The Winning Of A Kiss At Love's Beginning, When Two Mutual Hearts Are Sighing For The Knot There's No Untying!