Sir Henry Taylor

We figure to ourselves The thing we like; and then we build it up, As chance will have it, on the rock or sand,- For thought is tired of wandering o'er the world, And homebound Fancy runs her bark ashore.

The world knows nothing of its greatest men.

He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend. Eternity mourns that. 'T is an ill cure For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them. Where sorrow 's held intrusive and turned out, There wisdom will not enter, nor true power, Nor aught that dignifies humanity.

The philosophy which affects to teach us a contempt of money does not run very deep.

An unreflected light did never yet Dazzle the vision feminine.

Such souls, Whose sudden visitations daze the world, Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind A voice that in the distance far away Wakens the slumbering ages.