An angel stood and met my gaze, Through the low doorway of my tent; The tent is struck, the vision stays; I only know she came and went.

I wonder if ever a song was sung but the singer's heart sang sweeter! I wonder if ever a rhyme was rung but the thought surpassed the meter! I wonder if ever a sculptor wrought till the cold stone echoed his ardent thought! Or, if ever a painter with light and shade the dream of his inmost heart portrayed!

Hence, dear delusion, sweet enchantment hence! - Horace Smith and James Smith,

All kin' o' smily round the lips, / An' teary round the lashes.

Wealth may be an excellent thing, for it means power, and it means leisure, it means liberty.

Let us be of good cheer, however, remembering that the misfortunes hardest to bear are those which never come.