The Man Who Lives By Hope, Will

Among The Writers Of Antiquity There Are None Who Instruct Us More Openly In The Manners Of Their Respective Times In Which They Lived Than Those Who Have Employed Themselves In Satire, Under Whatever Dress It May Appear.

There Is No Passion That Is Not Finely Expressed In Those Parts Of The Inspired Writings Which Are Proper For Divine Songs And Anthems.

There Is Not Any Present Moment That Is Unconnected With Some Future One. The Life Of Every Man Is A Continued Chain Of Incidents, Each Link Of Which Hangs Upon The Former. The Transition From Cause To Effect, From Event To Event, Is Often Carried On By Secret Steps, Which Our Foresight Cannot Divine, And Our Sagacity Is Unable To Trace. Evil May At Some Future Period Bring Forth Good; And Good May Bring Forth Evil, Both Equally Unexpected.

When I Read The Rules Of Criticism, I Immediately Inquire After The Works Of The Author Who Has Written Them, And By That Means Discover What It Is He Likes In A Composition.

It Must Be So,-plato, Thou Reasonest Well! Else Whence This Pleasing Hope, This Fond Desire, This Longing After Immortality? Or Whence This Secret Dread And Inward Horror Of Falling Into Naught? Why Shrinks The Soul Back On Herself, And Startles At Destruction? 't Is The Divinity That Stirs Within Us; 't Is Heaven Itself That Points Out An Hereafter, And Intimates Eternity To Man. Eternity! Thou Pleasing, Dreadful Thought!