Fisher's Drawing Room Scrap Books 1832-39

"That feminine fancy, a will of your own, Is a luxury wholly denied to a throne ;"

"Then many a stately castle stood O’er dungeons dark and deep ; Then many a noble robber wont The king’s highway to keep. Ah ! these were not the times to praise, Thank God, we know more peaceful days."

"Where temples stood, the tamarinds grow ; Broken columns are mouldering below. No steps are heard in the ruined hall. Such is man’s pride, and such is its fall."

"He cannot hear the skylark sing, The music of the wild bee’s wing; The murmur of the plaining bough ; A gentle whisper fairy low; The noise of falling waters near— All these have left his mournful ear."

"Our prize is won, our chase is o’er, Turn the vessel to the shore. Place yon rock, so that the wind, Like a prisoner, howl behind ; Which is darkest—wave, or cloud ? One a grave, and one a shroud."

"Good springs alike from penitence and praise, From aught that can the mortal spirit raise:"

"Aye, build it on these banks," the monarch said, "That when the autumn winds have swept the sea, They may come hither with their falling rains, A voice of mighty weeping o'er her grave."

"An ebbing tide of fire, the evil powers In fear and anger here are paramount, Rending the bosom of the fertile earth, And spreading desolation. Black as night, And terrible, as if the grave had sent Its own dark atmosphere to upper air, The heavy vapours rise ; from out the smoke Break the red volumes of the central flame, And lava floods and burning showers descend, Parching the soil to barrenness."

"But this sweet palace was for peace, Built by the water-side, When Zerid sheathed the sword and won The Persian for his bride."

"I'd rather have such stirring life as theirs, Who make their own way, and delight to make, Win wealth and honour by their own bright mind, Whose destiny is in itself—than bear The noblest name that ever belted Earl Left honoured to his son—"

"He comes from Kilas, earth and sky, Bright before the deity; The sun shines, as he shone when first His glory over ocean burst. The vales put forth a thousand flowers, Mingling the spring and summer hours; The Suras fill with songs the air. The Genii and their lutes are there; By gladness stirred, the mighty sea Flings up its waves rejoicingly; And Music wanders o'er its tide, For Siva comes to meet his bride."

"I would that the cloister's quiet were mine; In the silent depths of some holy shrine. I would tell my blessed beads, and would weep away From my inmost soul every stain of clay: My heart's young hopes they have left me now, And I sigh for the days of the veil and the vow."

"City of idol temples, and of shrines, Where folly kneels to falsehood—how the pride Of our humanity is here rebuked !"

"It was a king in Africa, He had an only son ; And none of Europe's crowned kings Could have a dearer one. . . . . . Alas ! it was an evil day, When such a thing could be; When strangers, pale and terrible, Came o'er the distant sea. . . . . . They bound him in a narrow hold, With others of his kind ; For weeks did that accursed ship Sail on before the wind. . . . . . At length a lovely island rose From out the ocean wave, They took him to the market-place, And sold him for a slave."

"Summer, shining summer, Art thou bringing now Colours to the red rose, Green leaves to the bough, Music to the singing birds, And honey to the bee ; Summer, shining summer, Oh, welcome unto thee."

"They met beside the stormy sea, those giant kings of old, And on each awful brow was set, a crown of burning gold. No ray the yet unrisen stars, or the wan moonbeams, gave, But far and bright, the meteor light shone over cloud and wave."

"A strain of music like the rushing wind, But deep and sweet As when the waters meet, In one mysterious harmony combined. So swells the mighty organ, rich and full, As if it were the soul Which raised the glorious whole, Of that fair building vast and wonderful."

"He died, and by his death-bed stood The wife, the child, the friend, And saw pale cheek and anxious eye O’er him in fondness bend. Oh, agony !—how could they, King, Call thine a happy end ?"

"For time is vanquished by discovery, By arts which triumph over common wants, By knowledge, which bequeaths the following age All that its predecessor sought and won."

"It is a mighty thing to teach mankind A new idolatry, to bind the weak In their own fancies, to incite the strong By high imaginations, future hopes, Which fill the craving in all noble hearts For things beyond themselves, beyond their sphere."

"Such men may live, fulfil their destiny, Fill a whole land with temples and with tombs, And yet not leave a record of their fame ; Forgotten utterly; and of their faith, No memory, but fallen monuments, Haunted by dim tradition.—"

"Oh, gloomy quarry! thou dost hide in thee The tower and shrine. The city vast and grand and wonderful, And strong, is thine."

"Alas ! the contrast between us, and what We can create; That man should be so little in himself, His works so great."

"Oh, likeness of humanity, ’Tis thus that life flows on, Till every fabric which we built In early youth is gone. The sacred and the beautiful, The mighty and sublime ; Alas, in vain, the heart would save One single wreck from time."

"Oh ! folly of deeming aught earthly can last, Life never knew sorrow whose reign has not past. Oh ! mockery of mockeries, to trust human heart, Whose grief is a shadow, to come and depart:"

"Could the past be restored to the present, Methinks ’twere a union sublime : The past—dreaming, high and ideal, The present—keen, selfish and wise, ’Twould be like the glorious old Grecian, And again steal the fire from the skies."

"Glittering in the morning beam, Crystal runs our little stream, See the flag-flowers bright and blue, Tinge the small waves with their hue; Azure, like a maiden's eye, Surely there the trout will lie: Shadowy hangs the alder bough Hush! we must be silent now."

"One half of our existence is a blank; A mighty empire hath forgetfulness ! History is but a page in the great past, So few amid Time’s records are unsealed."

"Morning, and flowers; green grass, and aged trees— All that can soothe, and calm, and purify, E’en ’mid a busy wilderness of streets."

"Forbid it, England—by thine own great self, By thine own yet unviolated hearths, . . . . Let not thy minister go forth in vain : The fate of Poland now is at thy will; The Autocrat will hear and heed thy voice ; England, my glorious country, speak, and save!"

"From drooping leaves, and bending flowers, Exhaled the midnight dews ! Like love that from its inmost thoughts Its own sweet life renews,"

"Who may deny that on the soul, The coming hours may cast Their shadow, till the future seem As actual as the past."

"Had life no mystery, and no hope, Oh ! who could bear to live !"

"There’s more for thought in one brief hour In yonder busy street, Than all that ever leaf or flower Taught in their green retreat."

"The country is no more left as it was originally created, than Belgrave Square remains its pristine swamp. The forest has been felled, the marsh drained, the enclosures planted, and the field ploughed. All these, begging Mr. Cowper’s pardon, are the works of man’s hands ; and so is the town—the one is not more artificial than the other."

"Change, change, wondrous change, Mighty is thy power, and strange ; Summer sleeps beneath the snow, Fading follows autumn’s glow : Time, what has its chronicle, But of thee and thine to tell ?"

"I give it up in pure despair; But well the muse may turn refractory, When all her inspiration is— A Chinese Town, and an English Factory."

"Dead !—it was like a thunderbolt To hear that he was dead ; Though for long weeks the words of fear Came from his dying bed ; Yet hope denied, and would deny We did not think that he could die."

"All things are signs in nature, still there are Subtle analogies we dimly trace. Perhaps our moral world has but its day, Of which the great sun is the glorious type; And intellect will run its course, and set. If so, we touch on the extremest verge Of our horizon ; and our arts, our power, Our conquests o’er the many realms of mind. Wealth, painting, sciences, and poetry Are but that rich magnificence of hues Which heralds in the closing of our day."

"Never more, when the day is o’er, Will the lonely vespers sound ; No bells are ringing—no monks are singing, When the moonlight falls around."

"Whene'er a person is a poet, No matter what the pang may be; Does not at once the public know it ? Witness each newspaper we see."

"Rage and revenge, and worldly care, Have all been calmed and purified, By memory of the childish prayer I whispered at my mother's side."

"The grave has its vengeance—the dead have their power In the terrible silence of midnight’s dark hour, When each shade is a spectre—and winds have a tone, To the ear of the innocent sleeper unknown ; When the visions ascend from the depths of the tomb, And strange shadows flit thro’ the spectral room."

"It is a glorious thing for man to war With time, by some great work. Wherefore was skill, And energy, and industry, bestowed, If that he use them not ?"

"Oh, build tombs for the dead, they're mightier there Than in their living palaces !"

"Methinks it is a glorious thing, To sail upon the deep ; A thousand sailors under you, Their watch and ward to keep :"

"He does not know his children’s face, His wife might pass him by, He is so altered—did they meet, With an unconscious eye : He has been many years at sea, He’s worn with wind and wave : He asks a little breathing space, Between it and his grave:"

"Poetry is youth's language; and the scroll Whereon is poured the music of its soul, Is like some long-loved friend, whose image seems To bring back memory's deepest, dearest dreams."

"Of all soils, a literary one is the soonest exhausted, and a change of subjects is as much needed as a change of crops."

"But now thou wilt fill a weary throne, What with rights of the people, and rights of thy own : An ear-trumpet now thy sceptre should be, Eternal debate is the future for thee. Lord Brougham will make a six-hours’ oration, On the progress of knowledge, the mind of the nation ; Lord Grey one yet longer, to state that his place Is perhaps less dear to himself than his race ; O’Connell will tell Ireland’s griefs and her wrongs, In speech, the mac-adamized prose of Moore’s songs :"