The angel, crossing heaven on wings of light

How long will conquerors trample earth, And Strength prevail o'er Right and Worth? Gaze round the world—this truth confess, The powerful still the weak oppress; New empires spring o'er empires' graves, Some must be free, and some be slaves;

Old scenes to visit, and old dreams to dream, Shall not to us a task of labour seem.

[H]aving entered the lists of Poetry, should I be foiled at the first onset, I may probably, like a true knight, who, as Cid Hamete's hero says, "though he be vanquished to-day, may conquer to-morrow," re-set my lance in rest, and venture …

Her neck is bared—the blow is struck—the soul has pass'd away; The bright—the beautiful—is now a bleeding piece of clay!— A solemn text! Go, think of it, in silence and alone, Then weigh against a grain of sand the glories of a throne!

There is poetry and there is beauty in real sympathy; but there is more—there is action. […] The noblest and most powerful form of sympathy is not merely the responsive tear, the echoed sigh, the answering look—it is the embodiment of the …

Good and beautiful things may easily be spoiled by suggestions of rights and duties