Heaven is above all yet; there sits a Judge
That no king can corrupt.

Heaven

Shakespeare: Henry VIII.

Is as the Book of God before thee set,
Wherein to read his wondrous works.

Milton: Paradise Lost.

May I reach

That purest heaven,-be to other souls
The cup of strength in some great agony.

George Eliot.

"Go, wing thy flight from star to star,
From world to luminous world, as far
As the universe spreads its flaming wall;
Take all the pleasures of all the spheres,
And multiply each through endless years,
One minute of heaven is worth them all!

Thomas Moore: Lalla Rookh.

Heaven is as near by water as by land.

Hell; see Guilt.

Longfellow: Sir Humphrey Gilbert.

A dungeon horrible, on all sides round,

As one great furnace flamed; yet from those flames
No light; but rather darkness visible
Serv'd only to discover sights of woe,

Regions of sorrow, doleful shades, where peace
And rest can never dwell, hope never comes
That comes to all, but torture without end.

Milton: Paradise Lost.

Hell hath no limits, nor is circumscrib'd
In one self-place; for where we are is Hell;
And where Hell is, there must we ever be;
And to conclude, when all the world dissolves,
And every creature shall be purified,

All places shall be Hell that are not Heaven.
Marlowe: Faustus.

Hell is the wrath of God-His hate of sin.

Hell is more bearable than nothingness.

Bailey: Festus.

Bailey: Festus.

Dr. Johnson: London.

-And bid him go to Hell, to Hell he goes.

Heroes, Heroism; see Courage and Nobility.
Whoe'er excels in what we prize,

Appears a hero in our eyes.

Swift: Cadenus and Vanessa.

Prodigious actions may as well be done
By weaver's issue, as by prince's son.

Dryden: Absalom and Achitophel.

Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay.

To the hero, when his sword

Byron: Childe Harold.

Has won the battle for the free,

Death's voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be!

Halleck: Maroo Bozzaris.

The race, in conquering,

Some fierce Titanic joy of conquest knows:
Whether in veins of serf or king,

Our ancient blood beats restless in repose.

Bayard Taylor: The National Ode.

Hardship, even as wrong,

Provokes the level-eyed, heroic mood.

Bayard Taylor: The National Ode.

-The catholic man who hath mightily won God out of knowledge and good out of infinite pain And sight out of blindness and purity out of a stain.

Sidney Lanier: The Marshes of Glynn.

Him they call Hero, who in one fine burst
Of splendid courage, mid the world's acclaim,
Doth storm the shining heights of mighty Fame,
And win his crown, though Fortune do her worst.
How shall we speak his holier name, who strives
In hidden silence and with laboring breath,
Against the fearsome shapes of Pain and Death,
Counting his laurels in glad human lives?

Mary Elizabeth Blake.

Home; see Absence, Father, Mother, and Welcome.
Man, through all ages of revolving time,
Unchanging man, in every varying clime,
Deems his own land of every land the pride,
Belov'd of heaven o'er all the world beside:
His home, the spot of earth supremely blest,
A dearer, sweeter spot than all the rest.

James Montgomery: West Indies.

And say, without our hopes, without our fears,
Without the home that plighted love ́endears,
Without the smile from partial beauty won,
Oh! what were man?-a world without a sun.
Campbell: Pleasures of Hope.

'Tis sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home; 'Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark Our coming, and look brighter when we come. Byron: Don Juan.

Such is the patriot's boast, where'er we roam,
His first, best country, ever is at home.

Goldsmith: Traveller.

Type of the wise, who soar, but never roam— True to the kindred points of Heaven and Home. William Wordsworth: To the Skylark.

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam, Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home. J. Howard Payne: Home, Sweet Home.

Hame, hame, hame, O hame fain wad I be-
O hame, hame, hame, to my ain countree!
Allan Cunningham.

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!

Scott: Lay of Last Minstrel.

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,

:---

When fond recollection presents them to view:
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild-

wood,

And every lov'd spot which my infancy knew.

Woodworth: The Old Oaken Bucket.

Honesty; see Deceit and Sincerity.

Aye, sir: to be honest, as this world goes, is to be one man pick'd out of two thousand.

Shakespeare: Hamlet.

There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;
For I am arm'd so strong in honesty,

That they pass by me, as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.

Shakespeare: Julius Cæsar.

Pope: Essay on Man.

An honest man's the noblest work of God.

Honor; see Character.

Not a man, for being simply man,

Hath any honor; but honor for those honors
That are without him, as place, riches, favor,
Prizes of accident as oft as merit.

Shakespeare: Troilus and Cressida.

O, that estates, degrees, and offices,

Were not derived corruptly! and that clear honor
Were purchased by the merit of the wearer!
How many then should cover, that stand bare!
How many be commanded, that command!
How much low peasantry would then be glean'd