“Wounds sustained for the sake of conscience carry their own balsam with the blow.”

“I pretend not to be a champion of that same naked virtue called truth, to the very outrance. I can consent that her charms be hidden with a veil, were it but for decency's sake.”

“No word of commiseration can make a burden feel one feather's weight lighter to the slave who must carry it.”

“Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.”

“Albert GraemeIt was an English ladye bright,(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)And she would marry a Scottish knight,For Love will still be lord of all.Blithely they saw the rising sunWhen he shone fair on Carlisle wall;But they were sad ere day was done,Though Love was still the lord of all.Her sire gave brooch and jewel fine,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall;Her brother gave but a flask of wine,For ire that Love was lord of all.For she had lands both meadow and lea,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,For he swore her death, ere he would seeA Scottish knight the lord of all.That wine she had not tasted well(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)When dead, in her true love's arms, she fell,For Love was still the lord of all!He pierced her brother to the heart,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,So perish all would true love partThat Love may still be lord of all!And then he took the cross divine,Where the sun shines fair on Carlisle wall,And died for her sake in Palestine;So Love was still the lord of all.Now all ye lovers, that faithful prove,(The sun shines fair on Carlisle wall)Pray for their souls who died for love,For Love shall still be lord of all!-- Canto 6”

“PatriotismBreathes 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'dFrom 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, unhonour'd, and unsung.”

“Trade has all the fascination of gambling without its moral guilt.”