To live and die in scenes like this, With some we 've left behind us. - Thomas Moore

Life is a waste of wearisome hours
Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns;
And the heart that is soonest awake to the flowers,
Is always the first to be touch'd by the thorns.

The minds of some of our statesmen, like the pupil of the human eye, contract themselves the more, the stronger light there is shed upon them.

Faintly as tolls the evening chime,
Our voices keep tune and our oars keep time.