He Hath A Share Of Man's Intelligence,

Breathes 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'd From 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, Unhonor'd, And Unsung.

God In His Goodness Sent The Grapes To Cheer Both Great And Small; Little Fools Will Drink Too Much And Great Fools None At All!

Literature Is A Great Staff, But A Very Sorry Crutch.

If A Farmer Fills His Barn With Grain, He Gets Mice. If He Leaves It Empty, He Gets Actors.

Independently Of The Curious Circumstance That Such Tales Should Be Found Existing In Very Different Countries And Languages, Which Augurs A Greater Poverty Of Human Invention Than We Would Have Expected, There Is Also A Sort Of Wild Fairy Interest In Them, Which Makes Me Think Them Fully Better Adapted To Awaken The Imagination And Soften The Heart Of Childhood Than The Good-boy Stories Which Have Been In Later Years Composed For Them.