Familiar Quotations
by John Bartlett
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Speech, May 7, 1834. P. 110.

Inconsistencies of opinion, arising from changes of circumstances, are often justifiable.

Speech, July 25 and 27, 1846. Vol. v. p. 187.

I was born an American; I will live an American; I shall die an American.[533-3]

Speech, July 17, 1850. P. 437.

There is no refuge from confession but suicide; and suicide is confession.

Argument on the Murder of Captain White, April 6, 1830. Vol. vi. p. 54.

There is nothing so powerful as truth,—and often nothing so strange.

Argument on the Murder of Captain White. Vol. vi. p. 68.

Fearful concatenation of circumstances.[534-1]

Argument on the Murder of Captain White. Vol. vi. p. 88.

A sense of duty pursues us ever. It is omnipresent, like the Deity. If we take to ourselves the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, duty performed or duty violated is still with us, for our happiness or our misery. If we say the darkness shall cover us, in the darkness as in the light our obligations are yet with us.

Argument on the Murder of Captain White. Vol. vi. p. 105.

I shall defer my visit to Faneuil Hall, the cradle of American liberty, until its doors shall fly open on golden hinges to lovers of Union as well as lovers of liberty.[534-2]

Letter, April, 1851.


[529-3] This oration will be read five hundred years hence with as much rapture as it was heard. It ought to be read at the end of every century, and indeed at the end of every year, forever and ever.—JOHN ADAMS: Letter to Webster, Dec. 23, 1821.

[530-1] Mr. Adams, describing a conversation with Jonathan Sewall in 1774, says: "I answered that the die was now cast; I had passed the Rubicon. Swim or sink, live or die, survive or perish with my country was my unalterable determination."—JOHN ADAMS: Works, vol. iv. p. 8.

Live or die, sink or swim.—PEELE: Edward I. (1584?).

[531-1] Mr. Webster says of Mr. Adams: "On the day of his death, hearing the noise of bells and cannon, he asked the occasion. On being reminded that it was 'Independent Day,' he replied, 'Independence forever.'"—Works, vol. i. p. 150. BANCROFT: History of the United States, vol. vii. p. 65.

[531-2] We shall be strong to run the race, And climb the upper sky.

WATTS: Spiritual Hymns, xxiv.

[531-3] He it was that first gave to the law the air of a science. He found it a skeleton, and clothed it with life, colour, and complexion; he embraced the cold statue, and by his touch it grew into youth, health, and beauty.—BARRY YELVERTON (Lord Avonmore): On Blackstone.

[531-4] See Scott, page 493.

[532-1] A national debt, if it is not excessive, will be to us a national blessing.—ALEXANDER HAMILTON.

[532-2] When the State of Pennsylvania held its convention to consider the Constitution of the United States, Judge Wilson said of the introductory clause, "We, the people, do ordain and establish," etc.: "It is not an unmeaning flourish. The expressions declare in a practical manner the principle of this Constitution. It is ordained and established by the people themselves." This was regarded as an authoritative exposition.—The Nation.

That government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.—ABRAHAM LINCOLN: Speech at Gettysburg, Nov. 19, 1863.

[533-1] See Scott, page 495.

[533-2] The martial airs of England Encircle still the earth.

AMELIA B. RICHARDS: The Martial Airs of England.

[533-3] See Patrick Henry, page 429.

[534-1] See Scott, page 494.

[534-2] Mr. Webster's reply to the invitation of his friends, who had been refused the use of Faneuil Hall by the Mayor and Aldermen of Boston.

JANE TAYLOR. 1783-1824.

Though man a thinking being is defined, Few use the grand prerogative of mind. How few think justly of the thinking few! How many never think, who think they do!

Essays in Rhyme. (On Morals and Manners. Prejudice.) Essay i. Stanza 45.

Far from mortal cares retreating, Sordid hopes and vain desires, Here, our willing footsteps meeting, Every heart to heaven aspires.


I thank the goodness and the grace Which on my birth have smiled, And made me, in these Christian days, A happy Christian child.

A Child's Hymn of Praise.

Oh that it were my chief delight To do the things I ought! Then let me try with all my might To mind what I am taught.

For a Very Little Child.[535-1]

Who ran to help me when I fell, And would some pretty story tell, Or kiss the place to make it well? My mother.

My Mother.


[535-1] Written by Ann Taylor.

REGINALD HEBER. 1783-1826.

Failed the bright promise of your early day.


No hammers fell, no ponderous axes rung; Like some tall palm the mystic fabric sprung.[535-2] Majestic silence!


Brightest and best of the sons of the morning, Dawn on our darkness, and lend us thine aid.


By cool Siloam's shady rill How sweet the lily grows!

First Sunday after Epiphany. No. ii.

When Spring unlocks the flowers to paint the laughing soil.

Seventh Sunday after Trinity.

Death rides on every passing breeze, He lurks in every flower.

At a Funeral. No. i.

Thou art gone to the grave; but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb.

At a Funeral. No. ii.

Thus heavenly hope is all serene, But earthly hope, how bright soe'er, Still fluctuates o'er this changing scene, As false and fleeting as 't is fair.

On Heavenly Hope and Earthly Hope.

From Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand.

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.

Fills 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.

Man! 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.

Farewell! 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 Thermopylae.

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'Amitie 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.

[540-1] 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.

[544-2] 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 century.

[547-1] See Cowper, page 418.

[547-2] See Pope, page 341.

[547-3] And thou vast ocean, on whose awful face Time's iron feet can print no ruin-trace.

ROBERT MONTGOMERY: The Omnipresence of the Deity.

[548-1] 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.

[549-1] 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. 28.

[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.

[555-1] Vixerunt fortes ante Agamemnona Multi.

HORACE: Ode iv. 9. 25.

[556-1] See Middleton, page 173.

[557-1] Dans les premieres 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.

[558-4] 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 Baiae'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 present.[568-1]

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 Provencal 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-stained 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 Stael, 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 impossibility.

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 truth."[578-1]

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 carriere 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 one!

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 Eternity.

Sartor Resartus. Book iii. Chap. iii.

The greatest of faults, I should say, is to be conscious of none.[579-3]

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 here.[580-1]

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 HOPKINS: To C. C.

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 1830.

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 framed.

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 seamen.

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 Piece.

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.


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.

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