A Glass Of Good Wine

Breathes There The Man, With Soul So Dead, Who Never To Himself Hath Said, This Is My Own, My Native Land! Whose Heart Hath Ne'er Within Him Burn'd, As Home His Footsteps He Hath Turn'd From Wandering On A Foreign Strand! If Such There Breathe, Go Mark Him Well; For Him No Minstrel Raptures Swell; High Though His Titles, Proud His Name, Boundless His Wealth As Wish Can Claim; Despite Those Titles, Power, And Pelf, The Wretch, Concentred All In Self, Living, Shall Forfeit Fair Renown, And, Doubly Dying, Shall Go Down To The Vile Dust, From Whence He Sprung, Unwept, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.

Unless A Tree Has Borne Blossoms In Spring, You Will Vainly Look For Fruit On It In Autumn.

What Skilful Limner E'er Would Choose To Paint The Rainbow's Varying Hues, Unless To Mortal It Were Given To Dip His Brush In Dyes Of Heaven?

"charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, On!" Were The Last Words Of Marmion.

I Envy Thee Not Thy Faith, Which Is Ever In Thy Mouth But Never In Thy Heart Nor In Thy Practice