“The lowest ebb is the turn of the tide. ”

“Still stands the forest primeval; but far away from its shadow, Side by side, in their nameless graves, the lovers are sleeping.Under the humble walls of the little catholic churchyard,In the heart of the city, they lie, unknown and unnoticed;Daily the tides of life go ebbing and flowing beside them,Thousands of throbbing hearts, where theirs are at rest and forever,Thousands of aching brains, where theirs no longer are busy,Thousands of toiling hands, where theirs have ceased from their labors,Thousands of weary feet, where theirs have completed their journey!”

“Thus thought I, as by night I readOf the great army of the dead,The trenches cold and damp,The starved and frozen camp,--The wounded from the battle-plain,In dreary hospitals of pain,The cheerless corridors,The cold and stony floors.Lo! in that house of miseryA lady with a lamp I seePass through the glimmering gloomAnd flit from room to room.And slow, as in a dream of bliss,The speechless sufferer turns to kissHer shadow, as it fallsUpon the darkening walls.”

“You know the rest. In the books you have readHow the British Regulars fired and fled,---How the farmers gave them ball for ball,From behind each fence and farmyard wall,Chasing the redcoats down the lane,Then crossing the fields to emerge againUnder the trees at the turn of the road,And only pausing to fire and load.So through the night rode Paul Revere;And so through the night went his cry of alarmTo every Middlesex village and farm,---A cry of defiance, and not of fear,A voice in the darkness, a knock at the door,And a word that shall echo for evermore!For, borne on the night-wind of the Past,Through all our history, to the last,In the hour of darkness and peril and need,The people will waken and listen to hearThe hurrying hoof-beats of that steed,And the midnight message of Paul Revere.”

“I have you fast in my fortress,And will not let you depart,But put you down into the dungeon,In the round-tower of my heart,And there will I keep you forever,Yes, forever and a day,Till the walls shall crumble to ruin,And moulder in the dust away!”

“To charm, to strengthen, and to teach: these are the three great chords of might.”

“Each morning sees some task begun, each evening sees it close; Something attempted, something done, has earned a night's repose.”