The River Rhine, It Is Well Known,

Deep Thinking Is Attainable Only By A Man Of Deep Feeling, And All Truth Is A Species Of Revelation

The First Class Of Readers May Be Compared To An Hour-glass, Their Reading Being As The Sand; It Runs In And Runs Out, And Leaves Not A Vestige Behind. A Second Class Resembles A Sponge, Which Imbibes Everything, And Returns It In Nearly The Same State, Only A Little Dirtier. A Third Class Is Like A Jelly-bag, Which Allows All That Is Pure To Pass Away, And Retains Only The Refuse And Dregs. The Fourth Class May Be Compared To The Slave Of Golconda, Who, Casting Aside All That Is Worthless, Preserves Only The Pure Gems.

Poor Little Foal Of An Oppressed Race! I Love The Languid Patience Of Thy Face.

The Intelligible Forms Of Ancient Poets, The Fair Humanities Of Old Religion, The Power, The Beauty, And The Majesty That Had Their Haunts In Dale Or Piny Mountain, Or Forest By Slow Stream, Or Pebbly Spring, Or Chasms And Watery Depths, All These Have Vanished; They Live No Longer In The Faith Of Reason.

What Is One Man's Gain Is Another's Loss.