If You Keep A Thing Seven Years,

Land Of My Sires! What Mortal Hand Can E'er Untie The Filial Band That Knits Me To Thy Rugged Strand!

A Lawyer Without History Or Literature Is A Mechanic, A Mere Working Mason; If He Possesses Some Knowledge Of These, He May Venture To Call Himself An Architect.

Oh, Poverty Parts Good Company.

The Rose Is Fairest When 't Is Budding New, And Hope Is Brightest When It Dawns From Fears. The Rose Is Sweetest Wash'd With Morning Dew, And Love Is Loveliest When Embalm'd In Tears.

Come Forth, Old Man,--thy Daughter's Side Is Now The Fitting Place For Thee: When Time Has Quell'd The Oak's Bold Pride, The Youthful Tendril Yet May Hide, The Ruins Of The Parent Tree.