Thursday, May 14, 2009

Familiar Quotations - Part 11

_Missionary Hymn._

Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vile.

_Missionary Hymn._

I see them on their winding way,
About their ranks the moonbeams play.

_Lines written to a March._


[535-2] Altered in later editions to--

No workman's steel, no ponderous axes rung,
Like some tall palm the noiseless fabric sprung.


Free-livers on a small scale, who are prodigal within the compass
of a guinea.

_The Stout Gentleman._

The almighty dollar,[536-1] that great object of universal
devotion throughout our land, seems to have no genuine devotees
in these peculiar villages.

_The Creole Village._


[536-1] See Jonson, page 178.

LEIGH HUNT. 1784-1859.

Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace.

_Abou Ben Adhem._

Write me as one who loves his fellow-men.

_Abou Ben Adhem._

And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.

_Abou Ben Adhem._

Oh for a seat in some poetic nook,
Just hid with trees and sparkling with a brook!

_Politics and Poetics._

With spots of sunny openings, and with nooks
To lie and read in, sloping into brooks.

_The Story of Rimini._


How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollection presents them to view.

_The Old Oaken Bucket._

Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well.

_The Old Oaken Bucket._

The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-covered bucket, which hung in the well.

_The Old Oaken Bucket._


A wet sheet and a flowing sea,
A wind that follows fast,
And fills the white and rustling sail,
And bends the gallant mast.
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While like the eagle free
Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea._

While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

_A Wet Sheet and a Flowing Sea._

When looks were fond and words were few.

_Poet's Bridal-day Song._

SIR W. F. P. NAPIER. 1785-1860.

Napoleon's troops fought in bright fields, where every helmet
caught some gleams of glory; but the British soldier conquered
under the cool shade of aristocracy. No honours awaited his
daring, no despatch gave his name to the applauses of his
countrymen; his life of danger and hardship was uncheered by
hope, his death unnoticed.

_Peninsular War_ (1810). _Vol. ii. Book xi. Chap. iii._

JOHN PIERPONT. 1785-1866.

A weapon that comes down as still
As snowflakes fall upon the sod;
But executes a freeman's will,
As lightning does the will of God;
And from its force nor doors nor locks
Can shield you,--'t is the ballot-box.

_A Word from a Petitioner._

From every place below the skies
The grateful song, the fervent prayer,--
The incense of the heart,[538-1]--may rise
To heaven, and find acceptance there.

_Every Place a Temple._


[538-1] See Cotton, page 362.

BRYAN W. PROCTER. 1787-1874.

The sea! the sea! the open sea!
The blue, the fresh, the ever free!

_The Sea._

I 'm on the sea! I 'm on the sea!
I am where I would ever be,
With the blue above and the blue below,
And silence wheresoe'er I go.

_The Sea._

I never was on the dull, tame shore,
But I loved the great sea more and more.

_The Sea._

Touch us gently, Time![538-2]
Let us glide adown thy stream
Gently,--as we sometimes glide
Through a quiet dream.

_Touch us gently, Time._


[538-2] See Crabbe, page 445.

LORD BYRON 1788-1824.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,
But waft thy name beyond the sky.

_Farewell! if ever fondest Prayer._

I only know we loved in vain;
I only feel--farewell! farewell!

_Farewell! if ever fondest Prayer._

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years.

_When we Two parted._

Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.

_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 6._

'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print;
A book 's a book, although there 's nothing in 't.

_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 51._

With just enough of learning to misquote.

_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 66._

As soon
Seek roses in December, ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing that 's false, before
You trust in critics.

_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 75._

Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms.

_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 326._

Oh, Amos Cottle! Phoebus! what a name!

_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 399._

So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
View'd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wing'd the shaft that quiver'd in his heart.[539-1]

_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 826._

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact, in virtue's name, let Crabbe attest,--
Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.

_English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 839._

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh give me back my heart!

_Maid of Athens._

Had sigh'd to many, though he loved but one.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 5._

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy men.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 7._

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 9._

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 10._

Might shake the saintship of an anchorite.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 11._

Adieu! adieu! my native shore
Fades o'er the waters blue.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 13._

My native land, good night!

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 13._

O Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 15._

In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 20._

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
For one who hath no friend, no brother there.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 40._

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.[540-1]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 82._

War, war is still the cry,--"war even to the knife!"[541-1]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. Stanza 86._

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 2._

A schoolboy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 2._

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 2._

The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.[541-2]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 6._

Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 23._

None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 24._

But 'midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 26._

Coop'd in their winged, sea-girt citadel.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 28._

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!
Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 73._

Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not,
Who would be free, themselves must strike the blow?

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 76._

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state:
An hour may lay it in the dust.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 84._

Land of lost gods and godlike men.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 85._

Where'er we tread, 't is haunted, holy ground.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 88._

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray Marathon.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. Stanza 88._

Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 1._

Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 2._

I am as a weed
Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam to sail
Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's breath prevail.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 2._

He who grown aged in this world of woe,
In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life,[542-1]
So that no wonder waits him.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 5._

Years steal
Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb,
And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 8._

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's capital had gather'd then
Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes look'd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 21._

But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Did ye not hear it?--No! 't was but the wind,
Or the car rattling o'er the stony street.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined;
No sleep till morn, when Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 22._

He rush'd into the field, and foremost fighting fell.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 23._

And there was mounting in hot haste.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 25._

Or whispering with white lips, "The foe! They come! they come!"

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 25._

Grieving, if aught inanimate e'er grieves,
Over the unreturning brave.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 27._

Battle's magnificently stern array.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 28._

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live on.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 32._

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 42._

He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
The loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind
Must look down on the hate of those below.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 45._

All tenantless, save to the crannying wind.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 47._

The castled crag of Drachenfels
Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 55._

He had kept
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him wept.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 57._

But there are wanderers o'er Eternity
Whose bark drives on and on, and anchor'd ne'er shall be.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 70._

By the blue rushing of the arrowy Rhone.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 71._

I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me;[543-1] and to me
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 72._

This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing
To waft me from distraction.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 85._

On the ear
Drops the light drip of the suspended oar.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 86._

All is concentr'd in a life intense,
Where not a beam, nor air, nor leaf is lost,
But hath a part of being.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 89._

In solitude, where we are least alone.[544-1]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 90._

The sky is changed,--and such a change! O night
And storm and darkness! ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 92._

Exhausting thought,
And hiving wisdom with each studious year.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 107._

Sapping a solemn creed with solemn sneer.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 107._

I have not loved the world, nor the world me.[544-2]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 113._

I stood
Among them, but not of them; in a shroud
Of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. Stanza 113._

I stood in Venice on the Bridge of Sighs,
A palace and a prison on each hand.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 1._

Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 1._

Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 3._

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree
I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed.
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 10._

Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo,
The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe![545-1]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 12._

There are some feelings time cannot benumb,
Nor torture shake.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 19._

Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 23._

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew,
The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,--too many, yet how few!

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 24._

Parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, till--'t is gone, and all is gray.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 29._

The Ariosto of the North.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 40._

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty.[545-2]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 42._

The air around with beauty.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 49._

Let these describe the undescribable.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 53._

The starry Galileo with his woes.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 54._

Ungrateful Florence! Dante sleeps afar,
Like Scipio, buried by the upbraiding shore.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 57._

The poetry of speech.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 58._

The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 69._

Then farewell Horace, whom I hated so,--
Not for thy faults, but mine.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 77._

O Rome! my country! city of the soul!

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 78._

The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 79._

Yet, Freedom! yet thy banner, torn, but flying,
Streams like the thunder-storm against the wind.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 98._

Heaven gives its favourites--early death.[546-1]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 102._

History, with all her volumes vast,
Hath but one page.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 108._

Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 109._

Tully was not so eloquent as thou,
Thou nameless column with the buried base.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 110._

Egeria! sweet creation of some heart
Which found no mortal resting-place so fair
As thine ideal breast.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 115._

The nympholepsy of some fond despair.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 115._

Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 115._

Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 120._

I see before me the gladiator lie.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 140._

There were his young barbarians all at play;
There was their Dacian mother: he, their sire,
Butcher'd to make a Roman holiday!

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 141._

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand;
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome falls--the world."[546-2]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 145._

Scion of chiefs and monarchs, where art thou?
Fond hope of many nations, art thou dead?
Could not the grave forget thee, and lay low
Some less majestic, less beloved head?

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 168._

Oh that the desert were my dwelling-place,[547-1]
With one fair spirit for my minister,
That I might all forget the human race,
And hating no one, love but only her!

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 177._

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods;
There is a rapture on the lonely shore;
There is society, where none intrudes,
By the deep sea, and music in its roar:
I love not man the less, but Nature more.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 178._

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean, roll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruin,--his control
Stops with the shore.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 179._

He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan,
Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown.[547-2]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 179._

Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow,--
Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now.[547-3]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 182._

Thou glorious mirror, where the Almighty's form
Glasses itself in tempests.

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 183._

And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy
I wantoned with thy breakers,
. . . . .
And trusted to thy billows far and near,
And laid my hand upon thy mane,--as I do here.[548-1]

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 184._

And what is writ is writ,--
Would it were worthier!

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 185._

Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been,--
A sound which makes us linger; yet--farewell!

_Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iv. Stanza 186._

Hands promiscuously applied,
Round the slight waist, or down the glowing side.

_The Waltz._

He who hath bent him o'er the dead
Ere the first day of death is fled,--
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.

_The Giaour. Line 68._

Such is the aspect of this shore;
'T is Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.

_The Giaour. Line 90._

Shrine of the mighty! can it be
That this is all remains of thee?

_The Giaour. Line 106._

For freedom's battle, once begun,
Bequeath'd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft, is ever won.

_The Giaour. Line 123._

And lovelier things have mercy shown
To every failing but their own;
And every woe a tear can claim,
Except an erring sister's shame.

_The Giaour. Line 418._

The keenest pangs the wretched find
Are rapture to the dreary void,
The leafless desert of the mind,
The waste of feelings unemployed.

_The Giaour. Line 957._

Better to sink beneath the shock
Than moulder piecemeal on the rock.

_The Giaour. Line 969._

The cold in clime are cold in blood,
Their love can scarce deserve the name.

_The Giaour. Line 1099._

I die,--but first I have possess'd,
And come what may, I _have been_ bless'd.

_The Giaour. Line 1114._

She was a form of life and light
That seen, became a part of sight,
And rose, where'er I turn'd mine eye,
The morning-star of memory!
Yes, love indeed is light from heaven;
A spark of that immortal fire
With angels shared, by Alla given,
To lift from earth our low desire.

_The Giaour. Line 1127._

Know ye the land where the cypress and myrtle
Are emblems of deeds that are done in their clime;
Where the rage of the vulture, the love of the turtle,
Now melt into sorrow, now madden to crime?[549-1]

_The Bride of Abydos. Canto i. Stanza 1._

Where the virgins are soft as the roses they twine,
And all save the spirit of man is divine?

_The Bride of Abydos. Canto i. Stanza 1._

Who hath not proved how feebly words essay
To fix one spark of beauty's heavenly ray?
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing cheek, his sinking heart, confess
The might, the majesty of loveliness?

_The Bride of Abydos. Canto i. Stanza 6._

The light of love,[550-1] the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face,[550-2]
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,--
And oh, that eye was in itself a soul!

_The Bride of Abydos. Canto i. Stanza 6._

The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle.

_The Bride of Abydos. Canto ii. Stanza 2._

Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life,
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away,
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!

_The Bride of Abydos. Canto ii. Stanza 20._

He makes a solitude, and calls it--peace![550-3]

_The Bride of Abydos. Canto ii. Stanza 20._

Hark! to the hurried question of despair:
"Where is my child?"--an echo answers, "Where?"[550-4]

_The Bride of Abydos. Canto ii. Stanza 27._

The fatal facility of the octosyllabic verse.

_The Corsair. Preface._

O'er the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,[550-5]
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
These are our realms, no limit to their sway,--
Our flag the sceptre all who meet obey.

_The Corsair. Canto i. Stanza 1._

Oh who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried.

_The Corsair. Canto i. Stanza 1._

She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.

_The Corsair. Canto i. Stanza 3._

The power of thought,--the magic of the mind!

_The Corsair. Canto i. Stanza 8._

The many still must labour for the one.

_The Corsair. Canto i. Stanza 8._

There was a laughing devil in his sneer.

_The Corsair. Canto i. Stanza 9._

Hope withering fled, and Mercy sighed farewell!

_The Corsair. Canto i. Stanza 9._

For in that word, that fatal word,--howe'er
We promise, hope, believe,--there breathes despair.

_The Corsair. Canto i. Stanza 15._

No words suffice the secret soul to show,
For truth denies all eloquence to woe.

_The Corsair. Canto iii. Stanza 22._

He left a corsair's name to other times,
Link'd with one virtue and a thousand crimes.[551-1]

_The Corsair. Canto iii. Stanza 24._

Lord of himself,--that heritage of woe!

_Lara. Canto i. Stanza 2._

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that 's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.[551-2]

_Hebrew Melodies. She walks in Beauty._

The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold.

_The Destruction of Sennacherib._

It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingale's high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers' vows
Seem sweet in every whisper'd word.

_Parisina. Stanza 1._

Yet in my lineaments they trace
Some features of my father's face.

_Parisina. Stanza 13._

Fare thee well! and if forever,
Still forever fare thee well.

_Fare thee well._

Born in the garret, in the kitchen bred.[552-1]

_A Sketch._

In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.

_Stanzas to Augusta._

The careful pilot of my proper woe.

_Epistle to Augusta. Stanza 3._

When all of genius which can perish dies.

_Monody on the Death of Sheridan. Line 22._

Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.

_Monody on the Death of Sheridan. Line 68._

Who track the steps of glory to the grave.

_Monody on the Death of Sheridan. Line 74._

Sighing that Nature form'd but one such man,
And broke the die, in moulding Sheridan.[552-2]

_Monody on the Death of Sheridan. Line 117._

O God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood.

_Prisoner of Chillon. Stanza 8._

And both were young, and one was beautiful.

_The Dream. Stanza 2._

And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him.

_The Dream. Stanza 2._

She was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,[553-1]
Which terminated all.

_The Dream. Stanza 2._

A change came o'er the spirit of my dream.

_The Dream. Stanza 3._

And they were canopied by the blue sky,
So cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful
That God alone was to be seen in heaven.

_The Dream. Stanza 4._

There 's not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.

_Stanzas for Music._

I had a dream which was not all a dream.


My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea;
But before I go, Tom Moore,
Here 's a double health to thee!

_To Thomas Moore._

Here 's a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And whatever sky 's above me,
Here 's a heart for every fate.[553-2]

_To Thomas Moore._

Were 't the last drop in the well,
As I gasp'd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell
'T is to thee that I would drink.

_To Thomas Moore._

So we 'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night.

_So we 'll go._

Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crowned him long ago
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.

_Manfred. Act i. Sc. 1._

But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit
To sink or soar.

_Manfred. Act i. Sc. 2._

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs.

_Manfred. Act ii. Sc. 1._

The heart ran o'er
With silent worship of the great of old!
The dead but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.

_Manfred. Act iii. Sc. 4._

Which makes life itself a lie,
Flattering dust with eternity.

_Sardanapalus. Act i. Sc. 2._

By all that 's good and glorious.

_Sardanapalus. Act i. Sc. 2._

I am the very slave of circumstance
And impulse,--borne away with every breath!

_Sardanapalus. Act iv. Sc. 1._

The dust we tread upon was once alive.

_Sardanapalus. Act iv. Sc. 1._

For most men (till by losing rendered sager)
Will back their own opinions by a wager.

_Beppo. Stanza 27._

Soprano, basso, even the contra-alto,
Wished him five fathom under the Rialto.

_Beppo. Stanza 32._

His heart was one of those which most enamour us,--
Wax to receive, and marble to retain.[554-1]

_Beppo. Stanza 34._

Besides, they always smell of bread and butter.

_Beppo. Stanza 39._

That soft bastard Latin,
Which melts like kisses from a female mouth.

_Beppo. Stanza 44._

Heart on her lips, and soul within her eyes,
Soft as her clime, and sunny as her skies.

_Beppo. Stanza 45._

O Mirth and Innocence! O milk and water!
Ye happy mixtures of more happy days.

_Beppo. Stanza 80._

And if we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.

_Mazeppa. Stanza 10._

They never fail who die
In a great cause.

_Marino Faliero. Act ii. Sc. 2._

Whose game was empires and whose stakes were thrones,
Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones.

_Age of Bronze. Stanza 3._

I loved my country, and I hated him.

_The Vision of Judgment. lxxxiii._

Sublime tobacco! which from east to west
Cheers the tar's labour or the Turkman's rest.

_The Island. Canto ii. Stanza 19._

Divine in hookas, glorious in a pipe
When tipp'd with amber, mellow, rich, and ripe;
Like other charmers, wooing the caress
More dazzlingly when daring in full dress;
Yet thy true lovers more admire by far
Thy naked beauties--give me a cigar!

_The Island. Canto ii. Stanza 19._

My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!

_On my Thirty-sixth Year._

Brave men were living before Agamemnon.[555-1]

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 5._

In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,
Save thine "incomparable oil," Macassar!

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 17._

But, oh ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Inform us truly,--have they not henpeck'd you all?

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 22._

The languages, especially the dead,
The sciences, and most of all the abstruse,
The arts, at least all such as could be said
To be the most remote from common use.

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 40._

Her stature tall,--I hate a dumpy woman.

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 61._

Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
That all the Apostles would have done as they did.

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 83._

And whispering, "I will ne'er consent,"--consented.

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 117._

'T is sweet to hear the watch-dog's honest bark
Bay deep-mouth'd welcome as we draw near home;
'T is sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come.

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 123._

Sweet is revenge--especially to women.

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 124._

And truant husband should return, and say,
"My dear, I was the first who came away."

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 141._

Man's love is of man's life a thing apart;
'T is woman's whole existence.

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 194._

In my hot youth, when George the Third was king.

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 212._

So for a good old-gentlemanly vice
I think I must take up with avarice.[556-1]

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 216._

What is the end of fame? 'T is but to fill
A certain portion of uncertain paper.

_Don Juan. Canto i. Stanza 218._

At leaving even the most unpleasant people
And places, one keeps looking at the steeple.

_Don Juan. Canto ii. Stanza 14._

There 's nought, no doubt, so much the spirit calms
As rum and true religion.

_Don Juan. Canto ii. Stanza 34._

A solitary shriek, the bubbling cry
Of some strong swimmer in his agony.

_Don Juan. Canto ii. Stanza 53._

All who joy would win
Must share it, happiness was born a twin.

_Don Juan. Canto ii. Stanza 172._

Let us have wine and women, mirth and laughter,
Sermons and soda-water the day after.

_Don Juan. Canto ii. Stanza 178._

A long, long kiss,--a kiss of youth and love.

_Don Juan. Canto ii. Stanza 186._

Alas, the love of women! it is known
To be a lovely and a fearful thing.

_Don Juan. Canto ii. Stanza 199._

In her first passion woman loves her lover:
In all the others, all she loves is love.[557-1]

_Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 3._

He was the mildest manner'd man
That ever scuttled ship or cut a throat.

_Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 41._

The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung.
. . . . .
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all except their sun is set.

_Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 86. 1._

The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone,
I dreamed that Greece might still be free.

_Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 86. 3._

Earth! render back from out thy breast
A remnant of our Spartan dead!
Of the three hundred grant but three
To make a new Thermopylæ.

_Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 86. 7._

You have the Pyrrhic dance as yet,
Where is the Pyrrhic phalanx gone?
Of two such lessons, why forget
The nobler and the manlier one?
You have the letters Cadmus gave,--
Think ye he meant them for a slave?

_Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 86. 10._

Place me on Sunium's marbled steep,
Where nothing save the waves and I
May hear our mutual murmurs sweep;
There, swan-like, let me sing and die.[558-1]

_Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 86. 16._

But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.

_Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 88._

Ah, surely nothing dies but something mourns.

_Don Juan. Canto iii. Stanza 108._

And if I laugh at any mortal thing,
'T is that I may not weep.

_Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 4._

The precious porcelain of human clay.[558-2]

_Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 11._

"Whom the gods love die young," was said of yore.[558-3]

_Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 12._

Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.

_Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 12._

And her face so fair
Stirr'd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.[558-4]

_Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 29._

These two hated with a hate
Found only on the stage.

_Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 93._

"Arcades ambo,"--_id est_, blackguards both.

_Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 93._

I 've stood upon Achilles' tomb,
And heard Troy doubted: time will doubt of Rome.

_Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 101._

Oh "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue!"[559-1]
As some one somewhere sings about the sky.

_Don Juan. Canto iv. Stanza 110._

There 's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in,
Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

_Don Juan. Canto v. Stanza 5._

But all have prices,
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.[559-2]

_Don Juan. Canto v. Stanza 27._

And puts himself upon his good behaviour.

_Don Juan. Canto v. Stanza 47._

That all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soul,--the dinner bell.

_Don Juan. Canto v. Stanza 49._

The women pardon'd all except her face.

_Don Juan. Canto v. Stanza 113._

Heroic, stoic Cato, the sententious,
Who lent his lady to his friend Hortensius.

_Don Juan. Canto vi. Stanza 7._

A "strange coincidence," to use a phrase
By which such things are settled nowadays.

_Don Juan. Canto vi. Stanza 78._

The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.

_Don Juan. Canto viii. Stanza 3._

Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt
In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss
Was printed _Grove_, although his name was Grose.

_Don Juan. Canto viii. Stanza 18._

What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger
Is woman!

_Don Juan. Canto ix. Stanza 64._

And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.

_Don Juan. Canto x. Stanza 24._

Oh for a forty-parson power!

_Don Juan. Canto x. Stanza 34._

When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter,"
And proved it,--'t was no matter what he said.[560-1]

_Don Juan. Canto xi. Stanza 1._

And after all, what is a lie? 'T is but
The truth in masquerade.

_Don Juan. Canto xi. Stanza 37._

'T is strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

_Don Juan. Canto xi. Stanza 59._

Of all tales 't is the saddest,--and more sad,
Because it makes us smile.

_Don Juan. Canto xiii. stanza 9._

Cervantes smil'd Spain's chivalry away.

_Don Juan. Canto xiii. Stanza 11._

Society is now one polish'd horde,
Formed of two mighty tribes, the _Bores_ and _Bored_.

_Don Juan. Canto xiii. Stanza 95._

All human history attests
That happiness for man,--the hungry sinner!--
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.[560-2]

_Don Juan. Canto xiii. Stanza 99._

'T is strange, but true; for truth is always strange,--
Stranger than fiction.

_Don Juan. Canto xiv. Stanza 101._

The Devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice,
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

_Don Juan. Canto xv. Stanza 13._

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

_Don Juan. Canto xv. Stanza 43._

Friendship is Love without his wings.

_L'Amitié est l'Amour sans Ailes._

I awoke one morning and found myself famous.

_Memoranda from his Life, by Moore, Chap. xiv._

The best of prophets of the future is the past.

_Letter, Jan. 28, 1821._

What say you to such a supper with such a woman?[561-1]

_Note to a Letter on Bowles's Strictures._


[539-1] See Waller, pages 219-220.

Medio de fonte leporum
Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat

(In the midst of the fountain of wit there arises something
bitter, which stings in the very flowers).--LUCRETIUS: _iv. 1133._

[541-1] "War even to the knife" was the reply of Palafox, the
governor of Saragossa, when summoned to surrender by the French,
who besieged that city in 1808.

[541-2] See Waller, page 221.

[542-1] See Sheridan, page 443.

[543-1] I am a part of all that I have met.--TENNYSON: _Ulysses._

[544-1] See Gibbon, page 430.

Good bye, proud world; I 'm going home.
Thou art not my friend, and I 'm not thine.

EMERSON: _Good Bye, proud World._

See Johnson, page 374.

[545-1] See Wordsworth, page 474.

[545-2] A translation of the famous sonnet of Filicaja: "Italia,
Italia! O tu cui feo la sorte."

[546-1] See Wordsworth, page 478.

[546-2] Literally the exclamation of the pilgrims in the eighth

[547-1] See Cowper, page 418.

[547-2] See Pope, page 341.

And thou vast ocean, on whose awful face
Time's iron feet can print no ruin-trace.

ROBERT MONTGOMERY: _The Omnipresence of the Deity._

He laid his hand upon "the ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks.

POLLOK: _The Course of Time, book iv. line 389._

Know'st thou the land where the lemon-trees bloom,
Where the gold orange glows in the deep thicket's gloom,
Where a wind ever soft from the blue heaven blows,
And the groves are of laurel and myrtle and rose!

GOETHE: _Wilhelm Meister._

[550-1] See Gray, page 382.

[550-2] See Lovelace, page 259. Browne, page 218.

[550-3] Solitudinem faciunt, pacem appellant (They make solitude,
which they call peace).--TACITUS: _Agricola, c. 30._

[550-4] I came to the place of my birth, and cried, "The friends
of my youth, where are they?" And echo answered, "Where are
they?"--_Arabic MS._

[550-5] See Churchill, page 413.

To all nations their empire will be dreadful, because their ships
will sail wherever billows roll or winds can waft
them.--DALRYMPLE: _Memoirs, vol. iii. p. 152._

[551-1] See Burton, page 186.

[551-2] The subject of these lines was Mrs. R. Wilmot.--_Berry
Memoirs, vol. iii. p. 7._

[552-1] See Congreve, page 294.

[552-2] Natura il fece, e poi ruppe la stampa (Nature made him,
and then broke the mould).--ARIOSTO: _Orlando Furioso, canto x.
stanza 84._

The idea that Nature lost the perfect mould has been a favorite
one with all song-writers and poets, and is found in the
literature of all European nations.--_Book of English Songs, p.

[553-1] She floats upon the river of his thoughts.--LONGFELLOW:
_The Spanish Student, act ii. sc. 3._

[553-2] With a heart for any fate.--LONGFELLOW: _A Psalm of Life._

[554-1] My heart is wax to be moulded as she pleases, but enduring
as marble to retain.--CERVANTES: _The Little Gypsy._

Vixerunt fortes ante Agamemnona

HORACE: _Ode iv. 9. 25._

[556-1] See Middleton, page 173.

[557-1] Dans les premières passions les femmes aiment l'amant, et
dans les autres elles aiment l'amour.--ROCHEFOUCAULD: _Maxim 471._

[558-1] See Shakespeare, page 63.

[558-2] See Dryden, page 277.

[558-3] See Wordsworth, page 479.

All her innocent thoughts
Like rose-leaves scatter'd.

JOHN WILSON: _On the Death of a Child._ (1812.)

[559-1] See Southey, page 507.

[559-2] See Robert Walpole, page 304.

[560-1] What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind.--T.
H. KEY (once Head Master of University College School). On the
authority of F. J. Furnivall.

[560-2] For a man seldom thinks with more earnestness of anything
than he does of his dinner.--PIOZZI: _Anecdotes of Samuel Johnson,
p. 149._

[561-1] See Lady Montagu, page 350.

WILLIAM KNOX. 1789-1825.

Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave.[561-2]



[561-2] Abraham Lincoln was very fond of repeating these lines.

[561-3] From Knox's "Songs of Israel," 1824.

ALFRED BUNN. 1790-1860.

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
With vassals and serfs at my side.


The light of other days[561-4] is faded,
And all their glories past.


The heart bowed down by weight of woe
To weakest hope will cling.



[561-4] See Moore, page 523.


Strike--for your altars and your fires!
Strike--for the green graves of your sires!
God, and your native land!

_Marco Bozzaris._

Come to the bridal chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath!
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke!
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm!
Come when the heart beats high and warm,
With banquet song, and dance, and wine!
And thou art terrible!--the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know or dream or fear
Of agony are thine.

_Marco Bozzaris._

But to the hero, when his sword
Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard
The thanks of millions yet to be.

_Marco Bozzaris._

One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

_Marco Bozzaris._

Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined,--
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,
The Meccas of the mind.


Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,[562-1]
Nor named thee but to praise.

_On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake._

There is an evening twilight of the heart,
When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest.


They love their land because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his Majesty.


This bank-note world.

_Alnwick Castle._

Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,
The Douglas in red herrings.

_Alnwick Castle._


[562-1] See Rogers, page 455.

CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried.

_The Burial of Sir John Moore._

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

_The Burial of Sir John Moore._

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,
From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

_The Burial of Sir John Moore._

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be.

_To Mary._

Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light, ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore.

_To Mary._

Go, forget me! why should sorrow
O'er that brow a shadow fling?
Go, forget me, and to-morrow
Brightly smile and sweetly sing!
Smile,--though I shall not be near thee;
Sing,--though I shall never hear thee!

_Go, forget me!_


And the cold marble leapt to life a god.

_The Belvedere Apollo._

Too fair to worship, too divine to love.

_The Belvedere Apollo._


Lo where the stage, the poor, degraded stage,
Holds its warped mirror to a gaping age.


Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends,
An incarnation of fat dividends.


Behold! in Liberty's unclouded blaze
We lift our heads, a race of other days.

_Centennial Ode. Stanza 22._

Yes, social friend, I love thee well,
In learned doctors' spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.

_To my Cigar._


Then black despair,
The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world in which I moved alone.

_The Revolt of Islam. Dedication. Stanza 6._

With hue like that when some great painter dips
His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse.

_The Revolt of Islam. Canto v. Stanza 23._

The awful shadow of some unseen Power
Floats, tho' unseen, amongst us.

_Hymn to Intellectual Beauty._

The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame
Over his living head like heaven is bent,
An early but enduring monument,
Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song
In sorrow.

_Adonais. xxx._

A pard-like spirit, beautiful and swift.

_Adonais. xxxii._

Life, like a dome of many-coloured glass,
Stains the white radiance of eternity.

_Adonais. lii._

Oh thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion o'er the dreaming earth.

_Ode to the West Wind._

Thou who didst waken from his summer dreams
The blue Mediterranean, where he lay,
Lull'd by the coil of his crystalline streams
Beside a pumice isle in Baiæ's bay,
And saw in sleep old palaces and towers
Quivering within the wave's intenser day,
All overgrown with azure moss and flowers
So sweet, the sense faints picturing them.

_Ode to the West Wind._

That orbed maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon.

_The Cloud. iv._

We look before and after,
And pine for what is not;
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught;
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.

_To a Skylark. Line 86._

Kings are like stars,--they rise and set, they have
The worship of the world, but no repose.[565-1]

_Hellas. Line 195._

The moon of Mahomet
Arose, and it shall set;
While, blazoned as on heaven's immortal noon,
The cross leads generations on.

_Hellas. Line 221._

The world's great age begins anew,
The golden years return,
The earth doth like a snake renew
Her winter weeds outworn.

_Hellas. Line 1060._

What! alive, and so bold, O earth?

_Written on hearing the News of the Death of Napoleon._

All love is sweet,
Given or returned. Common as light is love,
And its familiar voice wearies not ever.
. . . . . .
They who inspire it most are fortunate,
As I am now; but those who feel it most
Are happier still.[566-1]

_Prometheus Unbound. Act ii. Sc. 5._

Those who inflict must suffer, for they see
The work of their own hearts, and this must be
Our chastisement or recompense.

_Julian and Maddalo. Line 482._

Most wretched men
Are cradled into poetry by wrong:
They learn in suffering what they teach in song.[566-2]

_Julian and Maddalo. Line 544._

I could lie down like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
Which I have borne, and yet must bear.

_Stanzas written in Dejection, near Naples. Stanza 4._

Peter was dull; he was at first
Dull,--oh so dull, so very dull!
Whether he talked, wrote, or rehearsed,
Still with this dulness was he cursed!
Dull,--beyond all conception, dull.

_Peter Bell the Third. Part vii. xi._

A lovely lady, garmented in light
From her own beauty.

_The Witch of Atlas. Stanza 5._

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

_Music, when soft Voices die._

I love tranquil solitude
And such society
As is quiet, wise, and good.

_Rarely, rarely comest Thou._

Sing again, with your dear voice revealing
A tone
Of some world far from ours,
Where music and moonlight and feeling
Are one.

_To Jane. The keen Stars were twinkling._

The desire of the moth for the star,
Of the night for the morrow,
The devotion to something afar
From the sphere of our sorrow.

_One Word is too often profaned._

You lie--under a mistake,[567-1]
For this is the most civil sort of lie
That can be given to a man's face. I now
Say what I think.

_Translation of Calderon's Magico Prodigioso. Scene i._

How wonderful is Death!
Death and his brother Sleep.

_Queen Mab. i._

Power, like a desolating pestilence,
Pollutes whate'er it touches; and obedience,
Bane of all genius, virtue, freedom, truth,
Makes slaves of men, and of the human frame
A mechanized automaton.

_Queen Mab. iii._

Heaven's ebon vault
Studded with stars unutterably bright,
Through which the moon's unclouded grandeur rolls,
Seems like a canopy which love has spread
To curtain her sleeping world.

_Queen Mab. iv._

Poets are the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the
mirrors of the gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the

_A Defence of Poetry._


[565-1] See Bacon, page 166.

[566-1] The pleasure of love is in loving. We are much happier in
the passion we feel than in that we inspire.--ROCHEFOUCAULD:
_Maxim 259._

[566-2] See Butler, page 216.

[567-1] See Swift, page 292.

[568-1] See Coleridge, page 504.

J. HOWARD PAYNE. 1792-1852.

'Mid pleasures and palaces though we may roam,
Be it ever so humble, there 's no place like home;[568-2]
A charm from the skies seems to hallow us there,
Which sought through the world is ne'er met with elsewhere.

An exile from home splendour dazzles in vain,
Oh give me my lowly thatched cottage again;
The birds singing gayly, that came at my call,
Give me them, and that peace of mind dearer than all.

_Home, Sweet Home._ (From the opera of "Clari, the Maid of Milan.")


[568-2] Home is home, though it be never so homely.--CLARKE:
_Paroemiologia, p. 101._ (1639.)

SEBA SMITH. 1792-1868.

The cold winds swept the mountain-height,
And pathless was the dreary wild,
And 'mid the cheerless hours of night
A mother wandered with her child:
As through the drifting snows she press'd,
The babe was sleeping on her breast.

_The Snow Storm._

JOHN KEBLE. 1792-1866.

The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask.


Why should we faint and fear to live alone,
Since all alone, so Heaven has willed, we die?
Nor even the tenderest heart, and next our own,
Knows half the reasons why we smile and sigh.

_The Christian Year. Twenty-fourth Sunday after Trinity._

'T is sweet, as year by year we lose
Friends out of sight, in faith to muse
How grows in Paradise our store.

_Burial of the Dead._

Abide with me from morn till eve,
For without Thee I cannot live;
Abide with me when night is nigh,
For without Thee I dare not die.


FELICIA D. HEMANS. 1794-1835.

The stately homes of England,--
How beautiful they stand,
Amid their tall ancestral trees,
O'er all the pleasant land!

_The Homes of England._

The breaking waves dashed high
On a stern and rock-bound coast,
And the woods against a stormy sky
Their giant branches tossed.

_Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers._

What sought they thus afar?
Bright jewels of the mine,
The wealth of seas, the spoils of war?
They sought a faith's pure shrine.

_Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers._

Ay, call it holy ground,
The soil where first they trod:
They have left unstained what there they found,--
Freedom to worship God.

_Landing of the Pilgrim Fathers._

Through the laburnum's dropping gold
Rose the light shaft of Orient mould,
And Europe's violets, faintly sweet,
Purpled the mossbeds at its feet.

_The Palm-Tree._

They grew in beauty side by side,
They filled one home with glee:
Their graves are severed far and wide
By mount and stream and sea.

_The Graves of a Household._

Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And naught beyond, O Earth!

_The Graves of a Household._

The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck
Shone round him o'er the dead.


Leaves have their time to fall,
And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath,
And stars to set; but all,
Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

_The Hour of Death._

Come to the sunset tree!
The day is past and gone;
The woodman's axe lies free,
And the reaper's work is done.

_Tyrolese Evening Song._

In the busy haunts of men.

_Tale of the Secret Tribunal. Part i._

Calm on the bosom of thy God,
Fair spirit, rest thee now!

_Siege of Valencia. Scene ix._

Oh, call my brother back to me!
I cannot play alone:
The summer comes with flower and bee,--
Where is my brother gone?

_The Child's First Grief._

I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,
And the larch has hung his tassels forth.

_The Voice of Spring._

I had a hat. It was not all a hat,--
Part of the brim was gone:
Yet still I wore it on.

_Rhine Song of the German Soldiers after Victory._

EDWARD EVERETT. 1794-1865.

When I am dead, no pageant train
Shall waste their sorrows at my bier,
Nor worthless pomp of homage vain
Stain it with hypocritic tear.

_Alaric the Visigoth._

You shall not pile, with servile toil,
Your monuments upon my breast,
Nor yet within the common soil
Lay down the wreck of power to rest,
Where man can boast that he has trod
On him that was "the scourge of God."

_Alaric the Visigoth._

No gilded dome swells from the lowly roof to catch the morning or
evening beam; but the love and gratitude of united America settle
upon it in one eternal sunshine. From beneath that humble roof
went forth the intrepid and unselfish warrior, the magistrate who
knew no glory but his country's good; to that he returned,
happiest when his work was done. There he lived in noble
simplicity, there he died in glory and peace. While it stands,
the latest generations of the grateful children of America will
make this pilgrimage to it as to a shrine; and when it shall
fall, if fall it must, the memory and the name of Washington
shall shed an eternal glory on the spot.

_Oration on the Character of Washington._


Here the free spirit of mankind, at length,
Throws its last fetters off; and who shall place
A limit to the giant's unchained strength,
Or curb his swiftness in the forward race?

_The Ages. xxxiii._

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language.


Go forth under the open sky, and list
To Nature's teachings.


The hills,
Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun.


Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste.


All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.


So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan which moves[572-1]
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one that wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.


The groves were God's first temples.

_A Forest Hymn._

The stormy March has come at last,
With winds and clouds and changing skies;
I hear the rushing of the blast
That through the snowy valley flies.


But 'neath yon crimson tree
Lover to listening maid might breathe his flame,
Nor mark, within its roseate canopy,
Her blush of maiden shame.

_Autumn Woods._

The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.

_The Death of the Flowers._

And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

_The Death of the Flowers._

Loveliest of lovely things are they
On earth that soonest pass away.
The rose that lives its little hour
Is prized beyond the sculptured flower.

_A Scene on the Banks of the Hudson._

The victory of endurance born.

_The Battle-Field._

Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,--
The eternal years of God are hers;
But Error, wounded, writhes with pain,
And dies among his worshippers.

_The Battle-Field._


[572-1] The edition of 1821 read,--

The innumerable caravan that moves
To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take.


When Freedom from her mountain-height
Unfurled her standard to the air,
She tore the azure robe of night,
And set the stars of glory there.
She mingled with its gorgeous dyes
The milky baldric of the skies,
And striped its pure, celestial white
With streakings of the morning light.

Flag of the free heart's hope and home!
By angel hands to valour given!
Thy stars have lit the welkin dome,
And all thy hues were born in heaven.
Forever float that standard sheet!
Where breathes the foe but falls before us,
With Freedom's soil beneath our feet,
And Freedom's banner streaming o'er us?

_The American Flag._

JOHN KEATS. 1795-1821.

A thing of beauty is a joy forever;
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness.

_Endymion. Book i._

He ne'er is crown'd
With immortality, who fears to follow
Where airy voices lead.

_Endymion. Book ii._

To sorrow
I bade good-morrow,
And thought to leave her far away behind;
But cheerly, cheerly,
She loves me dearly;
She is so constant to me, and so kind.

_Endymion. Book iv._

So many, and so many, and such glee.

_Endymion. Book iv._

Love in a hut, with water and a crust,
Is--Love, forgive us!--cinders, ashes, dust.

_Lamia. Part ii._

There was an awful rainbow once in heaven:
We know her woof, her texture; she is given
In the dull catalogue of common things.
Philosophy will clip an angel's wings.

_Lamia. Part ii._

Music's golden tongue
Flatter'd to tears this aged man and poor.

_The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 3._

The silver snarling trumpets 'gan to chide.

_The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 4._

Asleep in lap of legends old.

_The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 15._

Sudden a thought came like a full-blown rose,
Flushing his brow.

_The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 16._

A poor, weak, palsy-stricken, churchyard thing.

_The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 18._

As though a rose should shut and be a bud again.

_The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 27._

And lucent syrops, tinct with cinnamon.

_The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 30._

He play'd an ancient ditty long since mute,
In Provence call'd "La belle dame sans mercy."

_The Eve of St. Agnes. Stanza 33._

That large utterance of the early gods!

_Hyperion. Book i._

Those green-robed senators of mighty woods,
Tall oaks, branch-charmed by the earnest stars,
Dream, and so dream all night without a stir.

_Hyperion. Book i._

The days of peace and slumberous calm are fled.

_Hyperion. Book ii._

Dance and Provençal song and sunburnt mirth!
Oh for a beaker full of the warm South,
Full of the true, the blushful Hippocrene!
With beaded bubbles winking at the brim,
And purple-stainèd mouth.

_Ode to a Nightingale._

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

_Ode to a Nightingale._

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.

_Ode on a Grecian Urn._

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on,--
Not to the sensual ear, but, more endear'd,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.

_Ode on a Grecian Urn._

Thou, silent form, doth tease us out of thought
As doth eternity: Cold Pastoral!

_Ode on a Grecian Urn._

Beauty is truth, truth beauty,--that is all
Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

_Ode on a Grecian Urn._

In a drear-nighted December,
Too happy, happy tree,
Thy branches ne'er remember
Their green felicity.


Hear ye not the hum
Of mighty workings?

_Addressed to Haydon. Sonnet x._

Much have I travell'd in the realms of gold,
And many goodly states and kingdoms seen;
Round many western islands have I been
Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.
Oft of one wide expanse had I been told
That deep-brow'd Homer ruled as his demesne,
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene
Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies
When a new planet swims into his ken;
Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes
He stared at the Pacific, and all his men
Look'd at each other with a wild surmise,
Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

_On first looking into Chapman's Homer._

E'en like the passage of an angel's tear
That falls through the clear ether silently.

_To One who has been long in City pent._

The poetry of earth is never dead.

_On the Grasshopper and Cricket._

Here lies one whose name was writ in water.[577-1]


[577-1] See Chapman, page 37.

Among the many things he has requested of me to-night, this is the
principal,--that on his gravestone shall be this
inscription.--RICHARD MONCKTON MILNES: _Life, Letters, and
Literary Remains of John Keats. Letter to Severn, vol. ii. p. 91._


So his life has flowed
From its mysterious urn a sacred stream,
In whose calm depth the beautiful and pure
Alone are mirrored; which, though shapes of ill
May hover round its surface, glides in light,
And takes no shadow from them.

_Ion. Act i. Sc. 1._

'T is a little thing
To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarean juice
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.

_Ion. Act i. Sc. 2._

THOMAS CARLYLE. 1795-1881.

Except by name, Jean Paul Friedrich Richter is little known out
of Germany. The only thing connected with him, we think, that has
reached this country is his saying,--imported by Madame de Staël,
and thankfully pocketed by most newspaper critics,--"Providence
has given to the French the empire of the land; to the English
that of the sea; to the Germans that of--the air!"

_Richter. Edinburgh Review, 1827._

Literary men are . . . a perpetual priesthood.

_State of German Literature. Edinburgh Review, 1827._

Clever men are good, but they are not the best.

_Goethe. Edinburgh Review, 1828._

We are firm believers in the maxim that for all right judgment of
any man or thing it is useful, nay, essential, to see his good
qualities before pronouncing on his bad.

_Goethe. Edinburgh Review, 1828._

How does the poet speak to men with power, but by being still
more a man than they?

_Burns. Edinburgh Review, 1828._

A poet without love were a physical and metaphysical

_Burns. Edinburgh Review, 1828._

His religion at best is an anxious wish,--like that of Rabelais,
a great Perhaps.

_Burns. Edinburgh Review, 1828._

We have oftener than once endeavoured to attach some meaning to
that aphorism, vulgarly imputed to Shaftesbury, which however we
can find nowhere in his works, that "ridicule is the test of

_Voltaire. Foreign Review, 1829._

We must repeat the often repeated saying, that it is unworthy a
religious man to view an irreligious one either with alarm or
aversion, or with any other feeling than regret and hope and
brotherly commiseration.

_Voltaire. Foreign Review, 1829._

There is no heroic poem in the world but is at bottom a
biography, the life of a man; also it may be said, there is no
life of a man, faithfully recorded, but is a heroic poem of its
sort, rhymed or unrhymed.

_Sir Walter Scott. London and Westminster Review, 1838._

Silence is deep as Eternity, speech is shallow as Time.

_Sir Walter Scott. London and Westminster Review, 1838._

To the very last, he [Napoleon] had a kind of idea; that, namely,
of _la carrière ouverte aux talents_,--the tools to him that can
handle them.[579-1]

_Sir Walter Scott. London and Westminster Review, 1838._

Blessed is the healthy nature; it is the coherent, sweetly
co-operative, not incoherent, self-distracting, self-destructive

_Sir Walter Scott. London and Westminster Review, 1838._

The uttered part of a man's life, let us always repeat, bears to
the unuttered, unconscious part a small unknown proportion. He
himself never knows it, much less do others.

_Sir Walter Scott. London and Westminster Review, 1838._

Literature is the Thought of thinking Souls.

_Sir Walter Scott. London and Westminster Review, 1838._

It can be said of him, when he departed he took a Man's life with
him. No sounder piece of British manhood was put together in that
eighteenth century of Time.

_Sir Walter Scott. London and Westminster Review, 1838._

The eye of the intellect "sees in all objects what it brought
with it the means of seeing."

_Varnhagen Von Ense's Memoirs. London and Westminster Review, 1838._

Happy the people whose annals are blank in history-books.[579-2]

_Life of Frederick the Great. Book xvi. Chap. i._

As the Swiss inscription says: _Sprechen ist silbern, Schweigen
ist golden_,--"Speech is silvern, Silence is golden;" or, as I
might rather express it, Speech is of Time, Silence is of

_Sartor Resartus. Book iii. Chap. iii._

The greatest of faults, I should say, is to be conscious of

_Heroes and Hero-Worship. The Hero as a Prophet._

In books lies the soul of the whole Past Time: the articulate
audible voice of the Past, when the body and material substance
of it has altogether vanished like a dream.

_Heroes and Hero-Worship. The Hero as a Man of Letters._

The true University of these days is a Collection of Books.

_Heroes and Hero-Worship. The Hero as a Man of Letters._

One life,--a little gleam of time between two Eternities.

_Heroes and Hero-Worship. The Hero as a Man of Letters._

Adversity is sometimes hard upon a man; but for one man who can
stand prosperity there are a hundred that will stand adversity.

_Heroes and Hero-Worship. The Hero as a Man of Letters._


[578-1] How comes it to pass, then, that we appear such cowards in
reasoning, and are so afraid to stand the test of
ridicule?--SHAFTESBURY: _Characteristics. A Letter concerning
Enthusiasm, sect. 2._

Truth, 't is supposed, may bear all lights; and one of those
principal lights or natural mediums by which things are to be
viewed in order to a thorough recognition is ridicule
itself.--SHAFTESBURY: _Essay on the Freedom of Wit and Humour,
sect. 1._

'T was the saying of an ancient sage (Gorgias Leontinus, _apud_
Aristotle's "Rhetoric," lib. iii. c. 18), that humour was the only
test of gravity, and gravity of humour. For a subject which would
not bear raillery was suspicious; and a jest which would not bear
a serious examination was certainly false wit.--_Ibid. sect. 5._

[579-1] Carlyle in his essay on Mirabeau, 1837, quotes this from a
"New England book."

[579-2] MONTESQUIEU: _Aphorism._

[579-3] His only fault is that he has none.--PLINY THE YOUNGER:
_Book ix. Letter xxvi._


I want you to see Peel, Stanley, Graham, Sheil, Russell,
Macaulay, Old Joe, and so on. They are all upper-crust

_Sam Slick In England._[580-2] _Chap. xxiv._

Circumstances alter cases.

_The Old Judge. Chap. xv._


[580-1] Those families, you know, are our upper-crust,--not upper
ten thousand.--COOPER: _The Ways of the Hour, chap. vi._ (1850.)

At present there is no distinction among the upper ten thousand of
the city.--N. P. WILLIS: _Necessity for a Promenade Drive._

[580-2] "Sam Slick" first appeared in a weekly paper of Nova
Scotia, 1835.


I 've wandered east, I 've wandered west,
Through many a weary way;
But never, never can forget
The love of life's young day.

_Jeannie Morrison._

And we, with Nature's heart in tune,
Concerted harmonies.

_Jeannie Morrison._


I 'd be a butterfly born in a bower,
Where roses and lilies and violets meet.

_I 'd be a Butterfly._

Oh no! we never mention her,--
Her name is never heard;
My lips are now forbid to speak
That once familiar word.

_Oh no! we never mention her._

We met,--'t was in a crowd.

_We met._

Gayly the troubadour
Touched his guitar.

_Welcome me Home._

Why don't the men propose, Mamma?
Why don't the men propose?

_Why don't the Men propose?_

She wore a wreath of roses
The night that first we met.

_She wore a Wreath._

Friends depart, and memory takes them
To her caverns, pure and deep.

_Teach me to forget._

Tell me the tales that to me were so dear,
Long, long ago, long, long ago.

_Long, long ago._

The rose that all are praising
Is not the rose for me.

_The Rose that all are praising._

Oh pilot, 't is a fearful night!
There 's danger on the deep.

_The Pilot._

Fear not, but trust in Providence,
Wherever thou may'st be.

_The Pilot._

Absence makes the heart grow fonder:[581-1]
Isle of Beauty, fare thee well!

_Isle of Beauty._

The mistletoe hung in the castle hall,
The holly-branch shone on the old oak wall.

_The Mistletoe Bough._

Oh, I have roamed o'er many lands,
And many friends I 've met;
Not one fair scene or kindly smile
Can this fond heart forget.

_Oh, steer my Bark to Erin's Isle._


[581-1] I find that absence still increases love.--CHARLES

Distance sometimes endears friendship, and absence sweeteneth
it.--HOWELL: _Familiar Letters, book i. sect. i. No. 6._

THOMAS DRUMMOND.[582-1] 1797-1840.

Property has its duties as well as its rights.[582-2]

_Letter to the Landlords of Tipperary._


[582-1] Captain Drummond was the inventor of the Drummond light.

[582-2] DISRAELI: _Sybil, book i. chap. xi._

McDONALD CLARKE. 1798-1842.

Whilst twilight's curtain spreading far,
Was pinned with a single star.[582-3]

_Death in Disguise. Line 227._ (Boston edition, 1833.)


[582-3] Mrs. Child says:

"He thus describes the closing day":--
Now twilight lets her curtain down,
And pins it with a star.

SAMUEL LOVER. 1797-1868.

A baby was sleeping,
Its mother was weeping.

_The Angel's Whisper._

Reproof on her lips, but a smile in her eye.[582-4]

_Rory O'More._

For drames always go by _conthraries_, my dear.[582-5]

_Rory O'More._

"Then here goes another," says he, "to make sure,
For there 's luck in odd numbers,"[583-1] says Rory O'More.

_Rory O'More._

There was a place in childhood that I remember well,
And there a voice of sweetest tone bright fairy tales did tell.

_My Mother dear._

Sure the shovel and tongs
To each other belongs.

_Widow Machree._


[582-4] See Scott, page 482.

[582-5] See Middleton, page 172.

[583-1] See Shakespeare, page 46.

THOMAS HOOD. 1798-1845.

There is a silence where hath been no sound,
There is a silence where no sound may be,--
In the cold grave, under the deep, deep sea,
Or in the wide desert where no life is found.

_Sonnet. Silence._

We watch'd her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

_The Death-Bed._

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied;
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

_The Death-Bed._

I remember, I remember
The fir-trees dark and high;
I used to think their slender tops
Were close against the sky;
It was a childish ignorance,
But now 't is little joy
To know I 'm farther off from heaven
Than when I was a boy.

_I remember, I remember._

She stood breast-high amid the corn
Clasp'd by the golden light of morn,
Like the sweetheart of the sun,
Who many a glowing kiss had won.


Thus she stood amid the stooks,
Praising God with sweetest looks.


When he is forsaken,
Wither'd and shaken,
What can an old man do but die?

_Spring it is cheery._

And there is even a happiness
That makes the heart afraid.

_Ode to Melancholy._

There 's not a string attuned to mirth
But has its chord in melancholy.[584-1]

_Ode to Melancholy._

But evil is wrought by want of thought,
As well as want of heart.

_The Lady's Dream._

Oh would I were dead now,
Or up in my bed now,
To cover my head now,
And have a good cry!

_A Table of Errata._

Straight down the crooked lane,
And all round the square.

_A Plain Direction._

For my part, getting up seems not so easy
By half as _lying_.

_Morning Meditations._

A man that 's fond precociously of _stirring_
Must be a spoon.

_Morning Meditations._

Seem'd washing his hands with invisible soap
In imperceptible water.

_Miss Kilmansegg. Her Christening._

O bed! O bed! delicious bed!
That heaven upon earth to the weary head!

_Her Dream._

He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way,
Tormenting himself with his prickles.

_Her Dream._

Gold! Gold! Gold! Gold!
Bright and yellow, hard and cold.

_Her Moral._

Spurn'd by the young, but hugg'd by the old
To the very verge of the churchyard mould.

_Her Moral._

How widely its agencies vary,--
To save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,--
As even its minted coins express,
Now stamp'd with the image of Good Queen Bess,
And now of a Bloody Mary.

_Her Moral._

Another tumble! That 's his precious nose!

_Parental Ode to my Infant Son._

Boughs are daily rifled
By the gusty thieves,
And the book of Nature
Getteth short of leaves.

_The Season._

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags
Plying her needle and thread,--
Stitch! Stitch! Stitch!

_The Song of the Shirt._

O men with sisters dear,
O men with mothers and wives,
It is not linen you 're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives![585-1]

_The Song of the Shirt._

Sewing at once a double thread,
A shroud as well as a shirt.

_The Song of the Shirt._

O God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

_The Song of the Shirt._

No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief.

_The Song of the Shirt._

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread.

_The Song of the Shirt._

One more unfortunate
Weary of breath,
Rashly importunate,
Gone to her death.

_The Bridge of Sighs._

Take her up tenderly,
Lift her with care;
Fashioned so slenderly,
Young, and so fair!

_The Bridge of Sighs._

Alas for the rarity
Of Christian charity
Under the sun!

_The Bridge of Sighs._

Even God's providence
Seeming estrang'd.

_The Bridge of Sighs._

No sun, no moon, no morn, no noon,
No dawn, no dusk, no proper time of day,
. . . . . .
No road, no street, no t' other side the way,
. . . . . .
No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,
No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no buds.


No solemn sanctimonious face I pull,
Nor think I 'm pious when I 'm only bilious;
Nor study in my sanctum supercilious,
To frame a Sabbath Bill or forge a Bull.

_Ode to Rae Wilson._

The Quaker loves an ample brim,
A hat that bows to no salaam;
And dear the beaver is to him
As if it never made a dam.

_All round my Hat._


[584-1] See Burton, page 185.

[585-1] See Scott, page 493.

GEORGE LINLEY. 1798-1865.

Ever of thee I 'm fondly dreaming,
Thy gentle voice my spirit can cheer.

_Ever of Thee._

Thou art gone from my gaze like a beautiful dream,
And I seek thee in vain by the meadow and stream.

_Thou art gone._

Tho' lost to sight, to mem'ry dear
Thou ever wilt remain;
One only hope my heart can cheer,--
The hope to meet again.

Oh fondly on the past I dwell,
And oft recall those hours
When, wand'ring down the shady dell,
We gathered the wild-flowers.

Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight,
Tho' now each spot looks drear;
Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight,
To mem'ry thou art dear.

Oft in the tranquil hour of night,
When stars illume the sky,
I gaze upon each orb of light,
And wish that thou wert by.

I think upon that happy time,
That time so fondly lov'd,
When last we heard the sweet bells chime,
As thro' the fields we rov'd.

Yes, life then seem'd one pure delight,
Tho' now each spot looks drear;
Yet tho' thy smile be lost to sight,
To mem'ry thou art dear.



[587-1] This song--written and composed by Linley for Mr. Augustus
Braham, and sung by him--is given entire, as so much inquiry has
been made for the source of "Though lost to Sight, to Memory
dear." It is not known when the song was written,--probably about

Another song, entitled "Though lost to Sight, to Memory dear," was
published in London in 1880, purporting to have been "written by
Ruthven Jenkyns in 1703." It is said to have been published in the
"Magazine for Mariners." No such magazine, however, ever existed,
and the composer of the music acknowledged, in a private letter,
to have copied the song from an American newspaper. There is no
other authority for the origin of this song, and the reputed
author, Ruthven Jenkyns, was living, under the name of C----, in
California in 1882.


Put your trust in God, my boys, and keep your powder dry.[588-1]

_Oliver's Advice. 1834._


[588-1] There is a well-authenticated anecdote of Cromwell. On a
certain occasion, when his troops were about crossing a river to
attack the enemy, he concluded an address, couched in the usual
fanatic terms in use among them, with these words: "Put your trust
in God; but mind to keep your powder dry!"--HAYES: _Ballads of
Ireland, vol. i. p. 191._

ROBERT POLLOK. 1799-1827.

Sorrows remember'd sweeten present joy.

_The Course of Time. Book i. Line 464._

He laid his hand upon "the Ocean's mane,"
And played familiar with his hoary locks.[588-2]

_The Course of Time. Book iv. Line 389._

He was a man
Who stole the livery of the court of Heaven
To serve the Devil in.

_The Course of Time. Book viii. Line 616._

With one hand he put
A penny in the urn of poverty,
And with the other took a shilling out.

_The Course of Time. Book viii. Line 632._


[588-2] See Byron, page 548.

RUFUS CHOATE. 1799-1859.

There was a state without king or nobles; there was a church
without a bishop;[588-3] there was a people governed by grave
magistrates which it had selected, and by equal laws which it had

_Speech before the New England Society, Dec. 22, 1843._

We join ourselves to no party that does not carry the flag and
keep step to the music of the Union.

_Letter to the Whig Convention, 1855._

Its constitution the glittering and sounding generalities[589-1]
of natural right which make up the Declaration of Independence.

_Letter to the Maine Whig Committee, 1856._


[588-3] The Americans equally detest the pageantry of a king and
the supercilious hypocrisy of a bishop.--JUNIUS: _Letter xxxv.
Dec. 19, 1769._

It [Calvinism] established a religion without a prelate, a
government without a king.--GEORGE BANCROFT: _History of the
United States, vol. iii. chap. vi._

[589-1] Although Mr. Choate has usually been credited with the
original utterance of the words "glittering generalities," the
following quotation will show that he was anticipated therein by
several years:--

We fear that the glittering generalities of the speaker have left
an impression more delightful than permanent.--FRANKLIN J.
DICKMAN: _Review of a Lecture by Rufus Choate, Providence Journal,
Dec. 14, 1849._

THOMAS K. HERVEY. 1799-1859.

The tomb of him who would have made
The world too glad and free.

_The Devil's Progress._

He stood beside a cottage lone
And listened to a lute,
One summer's eve, when the breeze was gone,
And the nightingale was mute.

_The Devil's Progress._

A love that took an early root,
And had an early doom.

_The Devil's Progress._

Like ships, that sailed for sunny isles,
But never came to shore.

_The Devil's Progress._

A Hebrew knelt in the dying light,
His eye was dim and cold,
The hairs on his brow were silver-white,
And his blood was thin and old.

_The Devil's Progress._

THOMAS B. MACAULAY. 1800-1859.

(_From his Essays._)

That is the best government which desires to make the people
happy, and knows how to make them happy.

_On Mitford's History of Greece. 1824._

Free trade, one of the greatest blessings which a government can
confer on a people, is in almost every country unpopular.

_On Mitford's History of Greece. 1824._

The history of nations, in the sense in which I use the word, is
often best studied in works not professedly historical.

_On Mitford's History of Greece. 1824._

Wherever literature consoles sorrow or assuages pain; wherever it
brings gladness to eyes which fail with wakefulness and tears,
and ache for the dark house and the long sleep,--there is
exhibited in its noblest form the immortal influence of Athens.

_On Mitford's History of Greece. 1824._

We hold that the most wonderful and splendid proof of genius is a
great poem produced in a civilized age.

_On Milton. 1825._

Nobles by the right of an earlier creation, and priests by the
imposition of a mightier hand.

_On Milton. 1825._

Out of his surname they have coined an epithet for a knave, and
out of his Christian name a synonym for the Devil.[590-1]

_On Machiavelli. 1825._

The English Bible,--a book which if everything else in our
language should perish, would alone suffice to show the whole
extent of its beauty and power.

_On John Dryden. 1828._

His imagination resembled the wings of an ostrich. It enabled him
to run, though not to soar.

_On John Dryden. 1828._

A man possessed of splendid talents, which he often abused, and
of a sound judgment, the admonitions of which he often neglected;
a man who succeeded only in an inferior department of his art,
but who in that department succeeded pre-eminently.

_On John Dryden. 1828._

He had a head which statuaries loved to copy, and a foot the
deformity of which the beggars in the streets mimicked.

_On Moore's Life of Lord Byron. 1830._

We know no spectacle so ridiculous as the British public in one
of its periodical fits of morality.

_On Moore's Life of Lord Byron. 1830._

From the poetry of Lord Byron they drew a system of ethics
compounded of misanthropy and voluptuousness,--a system in which
the two great commandments were to hate your neighbour and to
love your neighbour's wife.

_On Moore's Life of Lord Byron. 1830._

That wonderful book, while it obtains admiration from the most
fastidious critics, is loved by those who are too simple to
admire it.

_On Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress. 1831._

The conformation of his mind was such that whatever was little
seemed to him great, and whatever was great seemed to him little.

_On Horace Walpole. 1833._

What a singular destiny has been that of this remarkable man!--To
be regarded in his own age as a classic, and in ours as a
companion! To receive from his contemporaries that full homage
which men of genius have in general received only from posterity;
to be more intimately known to posterity than other men are known
to their contemporaries!

_On Boswell's Life of Johnson_ (Croker's ed.). _1831._

Temple was a man of the world amongst men of letters, a man of
letters amongst men of the world.[591-1]

_On Sir William Temple. 1838._

She [the Roman Catholic Church] may still exist in undiminished
vigour when some traveller from New Zealand shall, in the midst
of a vast solitude, take his stand on a broken arch of London
Bridge to sketch the ruins of St. Paul's.[591-2]

_On Ranke's History of the Popes. 1840._

The chief-justice was rich, quiet, and infamous.

_On Warren Hastings. 1841._

In that temple of silence and reconciliation where the enmities
of twenty generations lie buried, in the great Abbey which has
during many ages afforded a quiet resting-place to those whose
minds and bodies have been shattered by the contentions of the
Great Hall.

_On Warren Hastings. 1841._

In order that he might rob a neighbour whom he had promised to
defend, black men fought on the coast of Coromandel and red men
scalped each other by the great lakes of North America.

_On Frederic the Great. 1842._

We hardly know an instance of the strength and weakness of human
nature so striking and so grotesque as the character of this
haughty, vigilant, resolute, sagacious blue-stocking, half
Mithridates and half Trissotin, bearing up against a world in
arms, with an ounce of poison in one pocket and a quire of bad
verses in the other.

_On Frederic the Great. 1842._

I shall cheerfully bear the reproach of having descended below
the dignity of history.[593-1]

_History of England. Vol. i. Chap. i._

There were gentlemen and there were seamen in the navy of Charles
II. But the seamen were not gentlemen, and the gentlemen were not

_History of England. Vol. i. Chap. ii._

The Puritan hated bear-baiting, not because it gave pain to the
bear, but because it gave pleasure to the spectators.[593-2]

_History of England. Vol. i. Chap. iii._

I have not the Chancellor's encyclopedic mind. He is indeed a
kind of semi-Solomon. He _half_ knows everything, from the cedar
to the hyssop.

_Letter to Macvey Napier, Dec. 17, 1830._

To every man upon this earth
Death cometh soon or late;
And how can man die better
Than facing fearful odds
For the ashes of his fathers
And the temples of his gods?

_Lays of Ancient Rome. Horatius, xxvii._

How well Horatius kept the bridge
In the brave days of old.

_Lays of Ancient Rome. Horatius, lxx._

These be the great Twin Brethren
To whom the Dorians pray.

_The Battle of Lake Regillus._

The sweeter sound of woman's praise.

_Lines written in August, 1847._

Ye diners-out from whom we guard our spoons.[593-3]

_Political Georgics._


[590-1] See Butler, page 215.

[591-1] See Pope, page 331-332.

[591-2] The same image was employed by Macaulay in 1824 in the
concluding paragraph of a review of Mitford's Greece, and he
repeated it in his review of Mill's "Essay on Government" in 1829.

What cities, as great as this, have . . . promised themselves
immortality! Posterity can hardly trace the situation of some. The
sorrowful traveller wanders over the awful ruins of others. . . .
Here stood their citadel, but now grown over with weeds; there
their senate-house, but now the haunt of every noxious reptile;
temples and theatres stood here, now only an undistinguished heap
of ruins.--GOLDSMITH: _The Bee, No. iv._ (1759.) _A City Night

Who knows but that hereafter some traveller like myself will sit
down upon the banks of the Seine, the Thames, or the Zuyder Zee,
where now, in the tumult of enjoyment, the heart and the eyes are
too slow to take in the multitude of sensations? Who knows but he
will sit down solitary amid silent ruins, and weep a people
inurned and their greatness changed into an empty name?--VOLNEY:
_Ruins, chap. ii._

At last some curious traveller from Lima will visit England, and
give a description of the ruins of St. Paul's, like the editions
of Baalbec and Palmyra.--HORACE WALPOLE: _Letter to Mason, Nov.
24, 1774._

Where now is Britain?
. . . . . .
Even as the savage sits upon the stone
That marks where stood her capitols, and hears
The bittern booming in the weeds, he shrinks
From the dismaying solitude.


In the firm expectation that when London shall be a habitation of
bitterns, when St. Paul and Westminster Abbey shall stand
shapeless and nameless ruins in the midst of an unpeopled marsh,
when the piers of Waterloo Bridge shall become the nuclei of
islets of reeds and osiers, and cast the jagged shadows of their
broken arches on the solitary stream, some Transatlantic
commentator will be weighing in the scales of some new and now
unimagined system of criticism the respective merits of the Bells
and the Fudges and their historians.--SHELLEY: _Dedication to
Peter Bell._

[593-1] See Bolingbroke, page 304.

[593-2] Even bear-baiting was esteemed heathenish and unchristian:
the sport of it, not the inhumanity, gave offence.--HUME: _History
of England, vol. i. chap. lxii._

[593-3] Macaulay, in a letter, June 29, 1831, says "I sent these
lines to the 'Times' about three years ago."

J. A. WADE. 1800-1875.

Meet me by moonlight alone,
And then I will tell you a tale
Must be told by the moonlight alone,
In the grove at the end of the vale!

_Meet me by Moonlight._

'T were vain to tell thee all I feel,
Or say for thee I 'd die.

_'T were vain to tell._

SIR HENRY TAYLOR. 1800-18--.

The world knows nothing of its greatest men.

_Philip Van Artevelde. Part i. Act i. Sc. 5._

An unreflected light did never yet
Dazzle the vision feminine.

_Philip Van Artevelde. Part i. Act i. Sc. 5._

He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that. 'T is an ill cure
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow 's held intrusive and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.

_Philip Van Artevelde. Part i. Act i. Sc. 5._

We figure to ourselves
The thing we like; and then we build it up,
As chance will have it, on the rock or sand,--
For thought is tired of wandering o'er the world,
And homebound Fancy runs her bark ashore.

_Philip Van Artevelde. Part i. Act i. Sc. 5._

Such souls,
Whose sudden visitations daze the world,
Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away
Wakens the slumbering ages.

_Philip Van Artevelde. Part i. Act i. Sc. 7._

WILLIAM H. SEWARD. 1801-1872.

There is a higher law than the Constitution.

_Speech, March 11, 1850._

It is an irrepressible conflict between opposing and enduring

_Speech, Oct. 25, 1858._

W. M. PRAED. 1802-1839.

Twelve years ago I was a boy,
A happy boy at Drury's.

_School and Schoolfellows._

Some lie beneath the churchyard stone,
And some before the speaker.

_School and Schoolfellows._

I remember, I remember
How my childhood fleeted by,--
The mirth of its December
And the warmth of its July.

_I remember, I remember._


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