"When amatory poets sing their loves In liquid lines mellifluously bland, And pair their rhymes as Venus yokes her doves, They little think what mischief is in hand."

"Oh! "darkly, deeply, beautifully blue," As someone somewhere sings about the sky."

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

"With eyes that look’d into the very soul— Bright—and as black and burning as a coal."

""Arcades ambo," id est—blackguards both."

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

"All tenantless, save to the crannying wind."

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

"And what is writ is writ,— Would it were worthier!"

"And trusted to thy billows far and near, And laid my hand upon thy mane — as I do here."

"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 wanton'd with thy breakers."

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

"Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow: Such as creation's dawn beheld, thou rollest now."

"He sinks into thy depths with bubbling groan, Without a grave, unknell'd, uncoffin'd, and unknown."

"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."

"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."

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

"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?"

"While stands the Coliseum, Rome shall stand; When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall; And when Rome falls — the World."

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

"I see before me the gladiator lie."

"Time, the avenger! unto thee I lift My hands, and eyes, and heart, and crave of thee a gift."

"Of its own beauty is the mind diseased."

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

"Thou wert a beautiful thought, and softly bodied forth."

"The nympholepsy of some fond despair."

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

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

"Man! Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear."

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

"Heaven gives its favourites—early death."

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

"The Niobe of nations! there she stands."

"O Rome! my country! city of the soul!"

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

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

"The poetry of speech."

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

"The starry Galileo with his woes."

"Let these describe the undescribable."

"Fills The air around with beauty."

"Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty."

"The Ariosto of the North."

"'Tis solitude should teach us how to die; It hath no flatterers; vanity can give No hollow aid; alone — man with his God must strive."

"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."

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

"Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound."

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

"Oh for one hour of blind old Dandolo, The octogenarian chief, Byzantium's conquering foe!"

"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."