People From London

"He took his lute—his voice was low, So lapsing waters softly flow Amid the drooping flowers around, As if they turned their sighs to sound. Ah, magic! of a voice that seems To haunt the soul with hopes and dreams;"

"The twilight, when our earth seems blending Its human passion with the skies; And rosy clouds, above ascending, Wear mortal colours while they rise, Till, purified, they disappear Amid the high pale atmosphere."

"She gazed, although she knew not why, Where ocean seemed another sky. The moon looked down upon the deep, Till in that deep it seemed to be; Scarce might the eye the image keep Of which was sky, and which was sea."

"How life effaces as it goes The keenest pang of earlier woes. How careless and how cold we grow, Dry as the dust we tread below;"

"But who e'er turned from beauty's ray For fear of future shade; Or who e'er flung a rose away Because that rose might fade."

"Love's gifts are like the vein of gold That intersects earth's darker mould; The gold is gained, the coin is wrought; But how much trouble has it brought?"

"Oh! sweet and sudden fire that springs With but a look to light its wings; How false to say thou needest time The bright ascent of hope to climb; A star thou art, that may not be Reckoned by dull astronomy!"

"Of all the fowls that sweep the air None with the Peacock may compare; Not only for its loveliness, Though queens in vain might ask such dress, But o'er those painted plumes are cast So many shadows from the past,—"

"Many a head that down had lain, Impatient with its twelve hours' pain, And wishing that the bed it prest, Were, as the grave's, a long last rest, Has sprung again at morning's call, Forgiving, or forgetting all; Lighting the weary weight of thought With colours from the day-break brought, Reading new promise in the sky, And hearing Hope, the lark on high."

"The lark is with triumphant song Singing the rose-touched clouds among: 'Tis there that lighted song has birth, What hath such hymn to do with earth?"

"Ah, minstrel song hath many wings! From foreign lands its wealth it brings."

"There is a city, that for slaves Has kings, and nations, winds, and waves: St. Mark is conscious of her power, His winged lion marks her tower."

"Ah! love and song are but a dream, A flower's faint shade on life's dark stream."

"Youth is too eager, forth it flings Itself upon exulting wings, Which seek the heaven they ask too near— One wild flight ends the bright career; With broken wing and darkened eye, Earth claims again its own to die."

"The past is the poet's,—that world is his own; Thence hath his music its truth and its tone. He calls up the shadows of ages long fled, And light, as life lovely, illumines the dead."

"Love is a pearl of purest hue, But stormy waves are round it; And dearly may a woman rue, The hour that she found it."

"Oh! world of sweet phantoms, how precious thou art! The past is perpetual youth to the heart."

"The past! ah, we owe it a tenderer debt, Heaven's own sweetest mercy is not to forget; Its influence softens the present, and flings A grace, like the ivy, wherever it clings."

"The present! it sinketh with sorrow and care, That but for the future, it never could bear; We dwell in its shadow, we see by its light, And to-day trusts to-morrow, it then will be bright."

"The future! ah, there hath the spirit its home, In its distance is written the glorious to come."

"The present—the actual—were they our all— Too heavy our burthen, too hopeless our thrall; But heaven, that spreadeth o'er all its blue cope, Hath given us memory,—hath given us hope!"

"THE present! it is but a drop from the sea In the mighty depths of eternity. I love it not—it taketh its birth Too near to the dull and the common earth."

"Great Heaven ! what vain beliefs Have stirred the pulse and led the hopes of man ! As if that honour could be bought by blood, And that the fierce right hand was better worth Than the fine mind, and high and generous heart !—"

"Up climb'd the sweet pea, The butterfly of flowers:—I love it not, Though every hue—and it has many tints— Are dyed as if the sunset evening clouds Had fallen to the earth in sudden rain, And left their colours : purple, delicate pink, And snowy white, are on thy wing-like leaves; But thou art all too forward in thy bloom ; Thy blossoms are the sun's, and cling to all That can support them into open day: And then they die, leaving no root behind, The hope and promise of another spring; And no perfume, whose lingering gratitude Remains round what upheld its summer's life."

"And here they met:—where should Love's meeting be — Love passionate, and spiritual, and deep— Where, but in such a haunted solitude— A green and natural temple—fitting shrine For vows the stars remember ?"

"O beauty of the midnight skies! O mystery of each distant star ! O dreaming hours, whose magic lies In rest and calm, with Day afar! Thanks for the higher moods that wake Our thoughtful and immortal part !— Out on our life, could we not make A spiritual temple of the heart ?"

"They say that, hung in ancient halls, At midnight from the silent lute A melancholy music falls From chords which were by daylight mute. And so the human heart by night Is touched by some inspired tone, Harmonious in the deep delight, By day it knew not was its own."

"Another soft and scented page, Fill'd with more honied words ! What motives to a pilgrimage A shrine like mine affords ! I know, before I break the seal, The words that I shall find:—"

"The wretch who on the scaffold stands Has some brief time allow'd For parting grasp of kindly hands, For farewell to the crowd :"

"The bride was young and beautiful, the bridegroom stern and old,— But the silken rein was hung with pearls, the housings bright with gold."

"She leant her head upon her hand : “I know not which to choose— Alas ! whichever choice I make, the other I must lose.”"

"Unveil'd, unmask'd ! not so, not so ! Ah ! thine are closer worn Than those which, in light mockery, One evening thou hast borne. The mask and veil which thou dost wear Are of thyself a part; No mask can ever hide thy face As that conceals thy heart."

"—the unpunished crime is never regretted. We weep over the consequence, not over the fault."

"What is the reason that we find it so satisfactory to make excuses to ourselves—the only persons in the world to whom they must be altogether needless ?"

"Ill-timed admiration is enough to enrage a saint."

"We talk of unsophisticated nature—I should like to know where it is to be found."

"Now, a fancy ball is bad enough in London, where milliners are many, and where theatres have costumes that may be borrowed or copied ; but in the country, where people are left to their own devices—truly to them may be applied the old poet's account of murderers, "their fancies are all frightful.”"

"English people ... never speak, excepting in cases of fire or murder, unless they are introduced."

"[From Cecil Forrester]: Nothing like love-letters for filling up a rainy morning. A mistress gives a man such an interest in himself! You cannot run your fingers through your hair, without a vision of the locket wherein one of your curls reposes on the fairest neck in the world. An east-wind only conjures up a host of "sweet anxieties ;" and if the worst comes to the worst, you can sit down and write sonnets to your inamorata's eyebrow."

"On one side, lemons are selling for a shilling a dozen ; on the other, oranges for sixpence. One man blows a horn in your ear, and offers you the Standard ; another exerts his lungs, and shews you the Courier. Pencils are to be had for a penny ; and penknives, with from three to six blades each, for eighteen pence a-dozen. A fellow with a trunk turns its corner on your temples; another deposits a box, with the grocery of a family —sugar, soap, candles, and all—on your toes. A gigantic gentleman nearly knocks you down in his hurry ; and an elderly Jew slips past you so neatly, that you tumble over him before you are aware. Every body is always too late, and therefore every body is in a bustle. Two policemen keep the peace; and half-a-dozen individuals, whose notions on the law of property are at variance with established principles or prejudices, attend for the purpose of breaking it. Add to these some females with shawls and sharp elbows ; and pattens, whose iron rings are for the benefit of foot-passengers. Such is the White Horse Cellar, and the pavement from Dover Street to Albemarle Street."

"To make our story shorter than the miniature groom's, he learnt that his own property in himself was in danger; and that, if the patriot's definition of liberty be true —"it is like the air we breathe, without it we die"—his life was near its termination. A writ was issued against him; and, thanks to a douceur to his valet, two professional gentlemen, as he left his toilet, would deprive his friends at the Clarendon of his company."

"Cecil Forrester was heir to many misfortunes, being handsome, rich, high-born, and clever."

"Who does not know the restlessness of an anticipated arrival ?"

"... ; but conscience, like a child, is soon lulled to sleep ; and habit is our idea of eternity."

"I have ever remarked, that when Fate has any great misfortune in store, it is always preceded by a brief period of calm and sunshine—as if to add bitterness of contrast to all other misery. It is for the happy to tremble—it is over their heads that the thunderbolt is about to burst."

"But in this world every thing has its evil ; the dust is on the wheels of the conqueror's chariot—the silken-wrought tapestry covers the mouldering wall;"

"I am persuaded there is no triumph equal to one achieved on the stage—it comes so immediate and so home : you have before you the mass of human beings whose sympathies are at your will; you witness the emotions which you raise, you see the tears which you command : the poet has erected the statue, but it is for you to give it life—the words must find their music on your lips—the generous sentiment, the exalted hope, the touches of deep feeling, ask their expression from you : surely such influence is among the triumphs of the mind, ay and a great and noble triumph."

"[From Lee]: I believe that the mind may make its own immortality : thought is the spiritual part of existence ; and so long as my mind influences others, so long as my thoughts remain behind, so long shall my spirit be conscious and immortal. The body may perish—not so the essence which survives in the living and lasting page."

"[From Lee, a dramatist]: Ah! the poet hath no true hope, who doth not place it in the many, and in the feeling of the common multitude."

"Out upon the folly which, in estimating human misery, allows aught to bear comparison with the agony of the poor ! I use the word poor relatively; I call not those poor to whom honesty brings self-respect, whose habits and whose means have gone together, and whose industry is its own support. But those are the poor whose exertion supplies not their wants—to whom cold, hunger, and weariness, are common feelings ; who have known better days—to whom the past furnishes contrast, and the future fear."