What Potent Blood Hath Modest May.

Yet America Is A Poem In Our Eyes; Its Ample Geography Dazzles The Imagination, And It Will Not Wait Long For Metres.

There Are Many Eyes That Can Detect And Honor The Prudent And Household Virtues; There Are Many That Can Discern Genius On His Starry Track, Though The Mob Is Incapable; But When That Love Which Is All-suffering, All-abstaining, All-aspiring, Which Has Vowed To Itself, That It Will Be A Wretch And Also A Fool In This World, Sooner Than Soil Its White Hands By Any Compliances, Comes Into Our Streets And Houses,--only The Pure And Aspiring Can Know Its Face, And The Only Compliment They Can Pay It, Is To Own It.

What Is Life But The Angle Of Vision? A Man Is Measured By The Angle At Which He Looks At Objects. What Is Life But What A Man Is Thinking Of All Day? This Is His Fate And His Employer. Knowing Is The Measure Of The Man. By How Much We Know, So We Are.

The World Exists For The Education Of Each Man.

Society Is An Illusion To The Young Citizen. It Lies Before Him In Rigid Repose, With Certain Names, Men, And Institutions, Rootedlike Oak-trees To The Centre, Round Which All Arrange Themselves The Best They Can. But The Old Statesman Knows That Society Is Fluid; There Are No Such Roots And Centres; But Any Particle May Suddenly Become The Centre Of The Movement, And Compel The System To Gyrate Round It, As Every Man Of Strong Will, Like Pisistratus, Or Cromwell, Does For A Time, And Every Man Of Truth, Like Plato, Or Paul, Does Forever.