LET Fate do her worst; there are relics of joy, Bright dreams of the past, she cannot destroy; They come in the night-time of sorrow and care, And bring back the features that joy used to wear. Like the vase, in which roses have once been distilled, You may break—you may shatter the vase, if you will; But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.
IF you wish success in life, make perseverance your bosom friend, experience your wise counsel, caution your elder brother, and hope your guardian genius.
COUNT that day lost whose low descending sun Views from thy hand no worthy action done.
’TIS but a trifle that you ask, But this you will admit, That trifles, more than greater tasks, Will sometimes strain our wit. I wish thee health, and wealth, and joy, As others have before: And were I in poetic mood, I’d surely wish thee more.
OUR greatest glory consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall.
HERE’S a sigh for those who love me, And a smile for those who hate, And whatever sky’s above me, Here’s a heart for every fate.
IN all thy humors, whether grave or mellow, Thou art such a touchy, testy, pleasant fellow; Hast so much wit, and mirth, and spleen, about thee, There is no living with thee, nor without thee.
MAY you live in bliss, from sorrow away, Having plenty laid up for a rainy day; And when you are ready to settle in life, May you find a good husband and make a good wife.
I WRITE here a name which I hope shall be known To all of the ages which follow my own. ‘How conceited!’ you say; but my lines shall remain; ’Tis my hope, you’ll discover, not I, that is vain.
OUR lives are albums; each new day’s a page As spotless as the leaf on which I write. Whene’er those books of ours shall be read, May few unwise inscriptions meet the sight.
ON the broad highway of action Friends of worth are far and few; But when one has proved her friendship, Cling to her who clings to you.
WERE mine the power I’d twine for thee A crown of jewels rare; Each gem should be a kingdom, Each pearl an humble prayer.
THERE are few friends in this wide world That love is fond and true; But ---- when you count them o’er Place me among the few.
THERE is a small and simple flower That twines around the humblest cot, And in the sad and lonely hours It whispers low: “Forget me not.”