"Not that we would detract one iota from the benevolence which does exist in humanity ; there is both more gratitude and more cause for gratitude than it is the fashion now-a-days to admit: but this we do say, that the obligation is never from those on whom we have a claim. Kindness is always unexpected; and “overcomes us like a summer cloud," exciting our "special wonder" as well as thankfulness."

"... who has not experienced, at some time or other, that words had all the relief of tears?"

"We again repeat, that there is no temper so communicative as an imaginative one."

"Distinction is purchased at the expense of sympathy"

"What a mistake rage is ! anger should never go beyond a sneer, if it really desires revenge."

"The peasant boy, who followed the coloured track of the rainbow, hoping to find the blue and charmed flower which springs where the arch touches earth, is wiser far than one who gives youth, genius, and time to literature."

"There must be some deep-rooted anti-social principle in every man's nature, so dearly does he love aught that separates him from his kind ; or is it but one of the many shapes taken by that mental kaleidoscope, vanity, the varying and the glittering, the desire of distinction, sinking into that of notice?"

"Good and evil ! good and evil ! ye are mingled inextricably in the web of our being ; and who may unthread the darker yarn ?"

"{of Theatres} There, while weeping for sorrows which are not, laughing at the light jest or the ludicrous misadventure, how little is remembered of the want which makes fear the only bond that binds the living to life !"

"Poverty is a terrible thing when it bows to the very ground the pride of the strong man—a terrible thing when it leaves old age destitute: till, the strong man may yet redeem his fortunes, and that old age may have had enjoyment while it was capable of enjoying. But a child, with the step slow from weakness, which from its age should be so buoyant; a cheek thin and white from hunger, at a period which especially cares for food (for all children are greedy); a form shrivelled with cold; a growth stopped by work too laborious for such tender years; a spirit broken by toil, want, and harshness; —is not such a child poverty's most miserable spectacle? It is, however, a common one."

"Curious it is that every hour of our day is repeated from myriad chimes; and yet how rarely do we attend to the clock striking! Alas! how emblematic is this of the way in which we neglect the many signs of time! How terrible, when we think of what time may achieve, is the manner in which we waste it! At the end of every man's life, at least three-quarters of the mighty element of which that life was composed will be found void—lost—nay, utterly forgotten! And yet that time, laboured and husbanded, might have built palaces, gathered wealth, and, still greater, made an imperishable name."

"How strong is the love of the country in all indwellers of towns !"

"How often will the lip frame some indifferent question, when the heart is full of the most important!"

"In sad truth, half our forebodings of our neighbours are but our own wishes, which we are ashamed to utter in any other form."

"He who seeks pleasure with reference to himself, not others, will ever find that pleasure is only another name for discontent."

"For when do friends not delight in the sorrow of the prosperous?"

"Truly, night was made for sleep; since to its wakeful hours belongs an oppression unknown to the very dreariest hours of day. The stillness is so deep, the solitude so unbroken, the fever brought on by want of rest so weakens the nerves, that the imagination exercises despotic and unwholesome power, till, if the heart have a fear or a sorrow, up it arises in all the force and terror of gigantic exaggeration."

"I had lost of humanity but its illusions, and they alone are what render it supportable."

"The weakness of our nature—how soon any strong emotion masters it !"

"Strange, that ignorance should be our best happiness in this life, and yet be the one we are ever striving to destroy !"

"We step not over the threshold of childhood till led by Love"

"Water—the mighty, the pure, the beautiful, the unfathomable—where is thy element so glorious as it is in thine own domain, the deep seas ? What an infinity of power is in the far Atlantic, the boundary of two separate worlds, apart like those of memory and of hope ! or in the bright Pacific, whose tides are turned to gold by a southern sun, and in whose bosom sleep a thousand isles, each covered with the verdure, the flowers, and the fruit of Eden ! But, amid all thy hereditary kingdoms, to which hast thou given beauty, as a birthright, lavishly as thou hast to thy favourite Mediterranean ? The silence of a summer night is now sleeping on its bosom, where the bright stars are mirrored, as if in its depths they had another home and another heaven. A spirit, cleaving air midway between the two, might have paused to ask which was sea, and which was sky. The shadows of earth and earthly things, resting omen-like upon the waters, alone shewed which was the home and which the mirror of the celestial host."

"For a discussion of some of the contents of this significant cultural volume, see Adriana Craciun, ‘Fatal Women of Romanticism’, Cambridge University Press, 2004, page 204. The section ‘The Enchantress’ here begins by describing that first story as a ‘self-consciously Byronic text’ that ‘develops a Promethean, distinctly Luciferian model of poetic identity and self-creation’."

"I would give worlds, could I believe One-half that is profess'd me; Affection! could I think it Thee, When Flattery has caress'd me."

"My tears are buried in my heart, Like cave-locked fountains sleeping."

"Another year, another year,— Alas! and must it be That Time's most dark and weary wheel Must turn again for me?"

"And this is the sum of our mortal state, The hopes we number,— Feverish waking, danger, death, And listless slumber."

"Let music make less terrible The silence of the dead; I care not, so my spirit last Long after life has fled."

"But song has touch'd my lips with fire, And made my heart a shrine; For what, although alloy'd, debased, Is in itself divine."

"I have such eagerness of hope To benefit my kind; And feel as if immortal power Were given to my mind."

"Well, read my cheek, and watch my eye,— Too strictly school'd are they, One secret of my soul to show, One hidden thought betray."

"Alas! We give our destiny from our own hands, And trust to those most frail of all frail things, The chances of humanity."

"Who shall say The love of genius is a common thing, Such as the many feel—half selfishness, Half vanity?—for genius is divine, And, like a god, doth turn its dwelling-place Into a temple; and the heart redeem'd By its fine influence is immortal shrine For love's divinity."

"For wishes are effectual but by will, And that too much is impotent and void In frail humanity; and time steals by Sinful and wavering, and unredeem'd."

"Where is the heart that has not bow'd A slave, eternal Love, to thee: Look on the cold, the gay, the proud, And is there one among them free?"

"Awakening hope has named the name Of love, or blown its spark to flame. Restlessness, but as the winds range From leaf to leaf, from flower to flower; Changefulness, but as rainbows change, From colour'd sky to sunlit hour. Ay, well indeed may minstrel sing,— What have the heart and year like spring?"

"Oh, love is timid in its birth! Watching her lightest look or stir, As he but look'd and breathed with her. Gay words were passing, but he leant In silence; yet, one quick glance sent,— His secret is no more his own, When has woman her power not known?"

"Autumn was falling, but the pine Seem'd as it mock'd all change; no sign Of season on its leaf was seen, The same dark gloom of changeless green. But like the gorgeous Persian bands 'Mid the stern race of northern lands, The chesnut boughs were bright with all That gilds and mocks the autumn's fall."

"The first, the very first; oh! none Can feel again as they have done; In love, in war, in pride, in all The planets of life's coronal, However beautiful or bright,— What can be like their first sweet light?"

"Oh, she had yet the task to learn How often woman's heart must turn To feed upon its own excess Of deep yet passionate tenderness! How much of grief the heart must prove That yields a sanctuary to love!"

"The cold north wind which bows to earth The lightness of the willow's birth Bends not the mountain cedar trees; Folding their branches from the breeze, They stand as if they could defy The utmost rage of storm and sky."

"Alas! that every lovely thing Lives only but for withering,— That spring rainbows and summer shine End but in autumn's pale decline."

"Oh, where is there the heart but knows Love's first steps are upon the rose!"

"'Tis not for Spring to think on all The sear and waste of Autumn's fall: —"

"Alas! for him whose youthful fire Is vowed and wasted on the lyre,— Alas! for him who shall essay, The laurel's long and dreary way! Mocking will greet, neglect will chill His spirit's gush, his bosom's thrill; And, worst of all, that heartless praise Echoed from what another says."

"For his was now the loveliest part Of the young poet's life, when first, In solitude and silence nurst, His genius rises like a spring Unnoticed in its wandering; Ere winter cloud or summer ray Have chill'd, or wasted it away,"