"My father joy'd to show the pleasant road, That leads thro' nature, up to nature's God. While others teach their sons the love of gold, He to my opening judgment would unfold The classic page.—My mother would inspire And fan the sallies of the muse's fire: She taught me to be great, was to be good; That goodness far excell'd the noblest blood."

"Knowledge or wealth to few are given, But mark how just the ways of Heaven: True joy to all is free. Nor wealth nor knowledge grant the boon: 'Tis thine, O conscience, thine alone, It all belongs to thee."

"Dull as a twice-told tale."

"Thousands of angels at thy gate, And great archangels stand, And twenty thousand chariots wait, Great Lord, thy dread command! Through all thy great, thy vast domains, With godlike honours clad, Captivity in captive chains Triumphing thou hast led."

"Sae true's his words, sae smooth's his speech, His breath like caller air, His very foot has music in't As he comes up the stairs: And will I see his face again! And will I hear him speak!"

"For there's nae luck about the house, There's nae luck at a'; There's little pleasure in the house When our gudeman's awa'."

"But are ye sure the news is true— And are ye sure he's weel? Is this a time to think o' wark?— Ye jades, fling by your wheel!"

"Awake, ye West Winds, through the lonely dale, And Fancy, to thy fairy bower betake; Even now, with balmy freshness breathes the gale, Dimpling with downy wing the stilly lake; Through the pale willows faltering whispers wake, And Evening comes with locks bodropp'd with dew; On Desmond's mouldering turrets slowly shake The trembling rye-grass and the harehell blue, And ever and anon fair Mulla's plaints renew."

"When nature's happiest touch could add no more, Heaven lent an angel's beauty to her face."

"Mr. Mickle's translation [Lusiad] promises well to stand in competition with any made in the English language. His characters are well preserved and strongly marked; his speeches have great force and spirit, his descriptions are masterly and sublime; his verse is written in a nervous and lofty diction, and in a fine harmony of numbers."

"Mickle was a man of genius, ... whose memory is without a spot, and whose name will live among the English poets."

"However I may detract from Mr. Mickle's merits as a faithful translator, I would give him all due praise as a poet; and a complete statement of what belongs to him, what to Camoens, would increase his reputation instead of impairing it. I never read a rhyme poem of any considerable length, that wearied me so little as the English Lusiad; the versification has the ease of Dryden without his negligence, and the harmony of Pope without his cloying sweetness."

"...about his thirteenth year, on "Spenser's Faery Queene" falling accidentally in his way, he was immediately struck with the picturesque descriptions of that much admired ancient bard, and powerfully incited to imitate his style and manner. [In Edinburgh] our author was admitted a pupil at the High School, when Homer and Virgil became equally the companions of his hours of leisure with his favorite Spenser."

"Mickle's facility of versification was so great, that, being a printer by profession, he frequently put his verses into types without taking the trouble previously to put them into writing; thus uniting the composition of the author with the mechanical operation which typographers call by the same name."

"Mickle, with a vein of great facility, united a power of verbal melody which might have been envied by bards of much greater renown."

"It is impossible for me not to approve of the verses of the translator of the Lusiad, which without flattery, in my poor opinion, are equal if not superior to Pope's translation of the Iliad."

"He was in every point of view a man of the utmost integrity, warm in his friendship, and indignant only against vice, irreligion, or meanness. [...] During the greatest part of his life, he endured the pressures of a narrow fortune without repining, never relaxing in his industry to acquire, by honest exertions, that independence which at length he enjoyed. He did not shine in conversation, nor would any person, from his appearance, have been able to form a favourable judgment of his talents. In every situation in which fortune placed him, he displayed an independent spirit, undebased by any meanness; and when his pecuniary circumstances made him, on one occasion, feel a disappointment with some force, he even then seemed more ashamed at his want of discernment of character, than concerned for his loss. [...] To conclude, his foibles were but few, and those inoffensive: his virtues were many, and his genius was very considerable. He lived without reproach, and his memory will always be cherished by those who were acquainted with him."

"Read the Lusiad in Mickle's translation, and the Eneid in its native strain: and, unless classical prejudices interpose, you will undoubtedly prefer Mickle; though it may appear strange that the version of a modern poem should outvie the original of the finest ancient epic. Such an eclipse seems a phenomenon in literature: but the Lusiad, perhaps, is become brilliant by transfusion."

"'But how we boom through the billows!' cried Jack, gazing over the top-rail; then, flinging forth his arm, recited:' "Aslope, and gliding on the leeward side, The bounding vessel cuts the roaring tide."Camoens! White Jacket, Camoens! Did you ever read him? The Lusiad, I mean? It's the man-of-war epic of the world, my lad. Give me Gama for a commodore, say I—noble Gama! And Mickle, White Jacket, did you ever read of him? William Julius Mickle? Camoens's translator? A disappointed man, though, White Jacket. Besides his version of The Lusiad, he wrote many forgotten things. Did you ever see his ballad of "Cumnor Hall"?—No?—Why, it gave Sir Walter Scott the hint of Kenilworth. My father knew Mickle when he went to sea on board the old Romney man-of-war...'"

"A man of genius, and of great poetical powers. He translated the Lusiad of Camoens in free paraphrastic manner, but with the spirit of an original poet. I could never account for the neglect of so very poetical a work."

"Mickle, who bade the strong poetic tide Roll o'er Britannia's shores in Lusitanian pride."

"Long time he lay upon the sunny hill, To his father's house below securely bound."

"There is a road that turning always Cuts off the country of Again. Archers stand there on every side And as it runs time's deer is slain And lies where it has lain."

"The world's great day is growing late, Yet strange these fields that we have planted So long with crops of love and hate."

"I have observed in foolish awe The dateless mid-days of the law And seen indifferent justice done By everyone on everyone."

"The curse of Scottish literature is the lack of a whole language, which finally means the lack of a whole mind."

"They do not live in the world, Are not in time and space. From birth to death hurled No word do they have, not one To plant a foot upon, Were never in any place."

"Facts are stubborn things."

"Keen are the pangs Of hapless love, and passion unapprov'd: But where consenting wishes meet, and vows Reciprocally breath'd, confirm the tie, Joy rolls on joy, an inexhausted stream! And virtue crowns the sacred scene."

"Thy fatal shafts unerring move, I bow before thine altar, Love!"

"Writing is all a lottery -- I have been a loser by the works of the greatest men of the age."

"Those sculptur'd halls my feet shall never tread, Where varnish'd vice and vanity combin'd, To dazzle and seduce, their banners spread, And forge vile shackles for the free-born mind."

"Thy spirit, Independence, let me share, Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye. Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare,Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky."

"As Love can exquisitely bless, Love only feels the marvellous of pain; Opens new veins of torture in the soul, And wakes the nerve where agonies are born."

"To send the injur'd unredress'd away, How great soe'er th' offender, or the wrong'd Howe'er obscure, is wicked—weak and vile: Degrades, denies, and should dethrone a king!"

"True courage scorns To vent her prowess in a storm of words; And, to the valiant, actions speak alone."

"To exult Ev'n o'er an enemy oppress'd, and heap Affliction on the afflicted, is the mark And the mean triumph of a dastard soul."

"To-day, in snow array'd, stern winter rules The ravag'd plain—Anon the teeming earth Unlocks her stores, and spring adorns the year: And shall not we—while fate, like winter, frowns, Expect revolving bliss?"