Why should we strive, with cynic frown, to knock their fairy castles down?
How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, When memory plays an old tune on the heart
There's a magical tie to the land of our home, which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may roam.
Who would not rather trust and be deceived?
Though language forms the preacher, 'Tis good works make the man.
I love it, I love it; and who shall dare / To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
Better build schoolrooms for the boy,/ Than cells and gibbets for the man.
The coward wretch whose hand and heart Can bear to torture ought below, Is ever first to quail and start From the slightest pain or equal foe.
On what strange stuff Ambition feeds!