All Quotes

"There's feasting spread in gorgeous halls, The lamps flash round the city walls, And many a flood of lustre falls O'er many an honoured name. Turn thou from this, and enter where Some mother weeps o'er her despair, Some desolate bride rends her rich hair, Some orphan joins the cry ! Then back again to the death plain, Where lie those whom they weep in vain, And ask, in gazing on the slain, What art thou, Victory ?"

"Love is divine in our belief Of its eternity — how vain, When we have known that Love can die, To think that he can live again !"

"Her likeness ! why it is a vain endeavour To image it. Painting or words may never Say what she was ; yet dwell I on the task, As if that Poesy had a right to ask From Memory its treasure."

"The morning Sun arose — Still the festal board was spread — Still hosts and guests were round ; But hosts and guests were dead !"

"Which is the best, Beauty and glory in a passionate clime, Mingled with thunder, tempest; — or the calm Of skies that scarcely change — which, at the least, If much of shine they have not, have no storms?"

"We seek—we find— And find the charm has with the search declined. Affections—pleasures—all in which we trust, — What do they end in ?—Nothing, or disgust."

"I will not seek the battle-field — The men I there should meet, What have they done to me to make Shedding their life-blood sweet ? It is the veriest madness man In maddest mood can frame, To feed the earth with human gore, And then to call it fame. I have been wrong'd ; but were my wrong The deadliest wrong ere done, I would not slay my enemy, But bid him still live on :— And I should deem my vengeance more Than the death-wound in strife— What ills can death inflict like those Heap'd on each hour of life ?"

"Harsh all earth's destinies, — but his most hard Who may not trust the praise he loves to hear — Who may not hold his fame sure till, too late, The seal of death and truth is set by fate."

"She spoke, they were but a few hurried words — Of the sweet flowers around, the heat, the night — Yet were they such as the blest heart records For many an after-moment's long delight ; They touch'd upon his spirit's inmost chords ; Though broken was the sense, the accents light, Yet sweeter was to him that tremulous tone Than all that eloquence were proud to own."

"Scene II. — (Mother, Clara, and afterwards Count Egmont.) [Act 3, Scene 2]"

"He leapt upon his steed, and like the wind They speed them on ; at first his giddy brain Swam like a chaos— mystery of the mind Which would guide its own workings, but in vain :"

"He enter'd now the garden, and a fall Of singing, voice and lute, sank on his ear : At first it seem'd thrice sweet and musical, But it grew sadder as he came more near."

"The Dead ! the Dead ! and sleep they here, The lost of other years — The Dead ! the Dead ! can they be here, Where nought of Death appears ?"

"Leaves grow green to fall, Flowers grow fair to fade, Fruits grow ripe to rot — All but for passing made."

"A thousand songs from a thousand boughs The glad birds' pleasure declare ; The rills are laughing in crystal light— For the presence of Spring is there."

"Spirit of the midnight dream, What is now upon thy wing ? Earth sleeps in the moonlight beam ; O'er that sleep what wilt thou fling ?"

"Glory of earth, and light from heaven, Young Genius ! but for thee, And the wild wonders to thee given, How base our earth would be !"

"Death came like a friend to restore thee To those who had died before thee: Father, mother, Sister, brother— There were none of these to mourn o'er thee. But now that Death has found thee, Thy kindred and friends are round thee ; In their rest they are laid In the dark yew shade, And cold sleep like their own has bound thee."

"One of those gifted ones that walk the earth, Like angels in their beauty, and the while The air is filled with music from their wings."

". . . Oh! the heart Makes its own happiness, perchance the best, When consecrate to one engrossing love !"

"The shade fell darker from the clustering vine, Whose green boughs twined the lattice like a wreath ; The lark had ceased the musical glad laugh With which he hails the morning; note by note The matin song had died upon the wind; The dew which hung upon the cypresses Had turned to sunshine on the waving leaves;—"

"We say that people and that things are changed; Alas ! it is ourselves that change : the heart Makes all around the mirror of itself."

"Where are the flowers, the beautiful flowers, That haunted your homes and your hearts in the spring ? Where is the sunshine of earlier hours ? Where is the music the birds used to bring ?"

"Weep for life, with its toil and care, Its crime to shun, and its sorrow to bear ; Let tears and the sign of tears be shed Over the living, not over the dead !"

"Its berries are red as a maiden's lip, Its leaves are of changeless green ; And any thing changeless now, I wis, Is somewhat rare to be seen. The holly, which fall and frost has borne, The holly's the wreath for a Christmas morn."

"Let the rose fall, another rose Will bloom upon the self-same tree ; Let the bird die, ere evening close Some other bird will sing for me. It is for the beloved to love, 'Tis for the happy to be kind ; Sorrow will more than death remove The associate links affections bind."

"Black (for such the quarries yield Where the sun hath never shone, Which night only rests upon, Was the marble floor, which gave Mirror like some clear dark wave."

"Statues to whose rest seem'd given Not the life of earth but heaven ; For each statue here enshrined What in the immortal mind Makes its beauty and its power — Genius's eternal dower :"

"His heart is like a maggot-eaten nut: There's nothing in it ; but 'tis closely shut."

"Now out upon you, Christmas ! Is this the merry time When the red hearth blazed, the harper sung, And the bells rung their glorious chime ? . . ."

"I saw an aged woman turn To her wretched home again — All day she had asked charity, And all day asked in vain. . . ."

"Is this the curse that is laid on the earth ? And must it ever be so, That there can be nothing of human good But must from some evil flow ? . . ."

"Then out on the folly of ancient times— The folly which wished you mirth : Look round on the anguish, look round on the vice, Then dare to be glad upon earth !"

"The poets told thy birth Was welcomed upon earth By the sweet multitude of shining flowers, By bursting buds, green leaves, and sunny hours."

"They know there must be May within the year, Else would they never dream that May was here."

"Glorious and beautiful Were youth's feeling and youth's thought— Would that we did not annul All that in us then was wrought ! Would their influence could remain When the hope and dream depart ; Would we might through life retain Still some youth within the heart !"

"Our sky has lost another star, The earth has claimed its own, And into dread eternity A glorious one is gone. He who could give departed things So much of light and breath, He is himself now with the past — Gone forth from life to death."

"Does the sweet morning rise, Bride-like, from sleep, When their first revelries Bird and bee keep, Singing out joyously In the green tree ? Then, when my hopes are high, Think I of thee."

"Deep in the silent waters, A thousand fathoms low, A gallant ship lies perishing — She foundered long ago."

"The clouds, and not the stars, to them The omen and the sign be given— The clouds, the vapours of our soil, Not stars, whose element is heaven. The deepening shade, the flitting light, Mark what each coming month will know— The passing joy, the constant care, Of life's sad pilgrimage below."

"Those cheerful bells, how can they bid A welcome to the new-born Year? I think on what the past has been ; I cannot hope—I only fear."

"And there the lovely Lily grew, The summer's purest flower, And many a tiny fairy knew The shelter of its bower,"

"It is a fact not to be disputed, that the aristocracy have not "progressed " in proportion to the other classes. A young nobleman of the present day has not a better education than his ancestor in the time of Elizabeth."

"Literary taste is often confounded with literary talent by others, quite as much as by ourselves."

"Ridicule is the re-action of enthusiasm. Sentiment was considered confined to schools ; and, so far from affecting too much feeling, people were beginning to be ashamed of having any."

"Life has little breathing time ; and, even when we do for a moment reflect, it is rather on our present than our past : the pains and pleasures of memory are put aside as quickly as the poem which celebrates them."

"But wit cuts its bright way through the glass-door of public favour;"

"But preference, and its consequence, neglect, is the child's most cruel wrong. The bitter feeling of comparing our own lot with another's, will come quite soon enough without its being taught in infancy."

"It is curious to observe how little one period resembles another. Centuries are the children of one mighty family, but here is no family-likeness between them."

"The imagination, which is the source of poetry, has in every country been the beginning as well as the ornament of civilization. It civilizes because it refines."