Tis distance lends enchantment to the view, and robes the mountain in its azure hue.
An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write; but how shall I begin? For I’m sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin.
I’ll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.
The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.
Ye are brothers, ye are men, and we conquer but to save.
What millions died that Caesar might be great!