All Quotes

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

"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."

"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."

"{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 !"

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

"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?"

"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."

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

"Distinction is purchased at the expense of sympathy"

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

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

"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."

"What a falsehood it is to say that genius and industry are incompatible ! Does one work of genius exist that has not also been a work of labour ?"

"—to enjoy yourself is the easy method to give enjoyment to others; ..."

"A despotic power makes slaves."

"I rather disdained than coveted the luxuries I saw : alas ! we desire riches more for others than ourselves."

"—vanity, like all social vices, craves for novelty ;"

"—true love is like religion, it hath its silence and its sanctity."

"They say gravity is the centre of attraction ; I rather think that noise is. Nothing so soon assembles the inhabitants of a house as a loud and sudden noise : ..."

"... when was a woman ever witty without being bitter?"

"To use the established phrase, three months of uninterrupted happiness glided away—a phrase, though in frequent use, whose accuracy I greatly doubt ; there being no such thing as uninterrupted happiness any how or any where."

"The discharge of a duty from affection is the best solace for sorrow."

"Romantic Switzerland! thy scenes are traced With characters of strange wild loveliness, Beauty and desolation, side by side; Here lofty rocks uprise, where nature seems To dwell alone in silent majesty; Rob'd by the snow, her stately palace fram'd Of the white hills; towering in all their pride, The frost's gigantic mounds are lost in clouds, Like to vast castles rear'd in middle air. The ice has sculptur'd too strange imagery— Obelisks, columns, spires, fantastic piles; Some like the polish'd marble, others clear As the rock crystal, others sparkling with The hues that melt along the sunborn bow."

"And o'er them lowers destruction, high in air, Upon those jutting crags, whose rugged sides, Riven in fragments, and like ruins pil'd, Seem as that giants of those ancient days When earthborn creatures braved th' Olympic Gods, Those of whom fable tells, had torn away Rocks from their solid base, and with strong arm, Parted the mountains: there the avalanche hangs, Mighty, but tremulous; just a light breath Will loosen it from off its airy throne; Then down it hurls in wrath, like to the sound Of thunder amid storms, or as the voice Of rushing waters—death in its career."

"Methinks adieu Is cold, when uttered with aught else but tears."

"Hope, frail but lovely shadow ! thou dost come, Like a bright vision on our pathway here, Making the gloomy future beautiful, And gilding our horizon with a light, The fairest human eye can ever know."

"Once more my harp awakens ; once again, Tho' all unworthy be my hand to twine Th' etherial blossomings of poetry, I would call forth its numbers, yet would feel Its music fall like sunlight on my soul."

"... absence is The moonlight of affection ;"

"Alas ! alas ! too often conscience sleeps, When pleasure's syren numbers lull its rest.—"

"The leaves were gone from all, save where the pine Threw the wide shadow of its unchang'd green. I could not envy it that fadeless state.— Ah ! who would be the last, the only one That ruin spares—no ; if the blight must pass O'er all around, let it pass o'er me too !"

"'Tis soothing, oh ! most soothing to the heart, To rove 'mid scenes where once we have been blest! Each tree, each blossom, has a thrilling charm; They seem memorials of those happier hours : The very sigh that tells they are no more, Is sweet unto the spirit; former days, And former feelings, rise upon the soul, Dear as they once have been."

"... Oh! burning are the drops That wounded love will shed—like to the dew Falling from off the poison tree, the blight Still following the touch ;—ah ! other tears Soften and bless—but these destroy the heart."

"Thou, Poetry, in absence wert a chain, Binding our hearts together: where so well As in thy numbers, could I pour my soul, In soothing tenderness? 'twas bliss, to make Thought visible to those of whom I thought."

"How innocent, how beautiful thy sleep ! Sweet one, 'tis peace and joy to gaze on thee!"

"I Give thee, love, a blooming braid; I cull'd it at eve's 'witching hour ; I twin'd it in the moon's sweet shade, When starlight dew was on each flower."

"You may smile at the fanciful structures I rear, And say, that my castles are built but on sand ; Like bubbles, that on the blue waters appear, That sparkle, invite, and then sink from the hand."

"And you, my fine poet, who thought that the earth To another such minstrel could never give birth, Already your works are all thrown on the shelf, And their author condemn'd as an ignorant elf.— Yes ; look thro' the world, and this truth you will find That, once out of sight, you are soon out of mind."

"I am a daughter of that land, Where the poet's lip and the painter's hand Are most divine, —where the earth and sky, Are picture both and poetry— I am of Florence."

"Statues but known from shapes of the earth, By being too lovely for mortal birth; Paintings whose colours of life were caught From the fairy tints in the rainbow wrought; Music whose sighs had a spell like those That float on the sea at the evening's close Language so silvery, that every word Was like the lute's awakening chord;"

"My power was but a woman's power; Yet, in that great and glorious dower Which Genius gives, I had my part: I poured my full and burning heart"

"But Love's bright fount is never pure; And all his pilgrims must endure All passion's mighty suffering Ere they may reach the blessed spring."

"It was my evil star above, Not my sweet lute, that wrought me wrong; It was not song that taught me love, But it was love that taught me song."

"There are a thousand fanciful things Linked round the young heart's imaginings. In its first love-dream, a leaf or a flower Is gifted then with a spell and a power: A shade is an omen, a dream is a sign, From which the maiden can well divine Passion's whole history."

"It is most sad to watch the fall Of autumn leaves!--but worst of all It is to watch the flower of spring Faded in its fresh blossoming!"

"I loved him as young Genius loves, When its own wild and radiant heaven Of starry thought burns with the light, The love, the life, by passion given. I loved him, too, as woman loves-- Reckless of sorrow, sin, or scorn: Life had no evil destiny That, with him, I could not have borne!"

"It is a night of summer,—and the sea Sleeps, like a child, in mute tranquillity. Soft o'er the deep-blue wave the moonlight breaks; Gleaming, from out the white clouds of its zone,"

"Then they were silent:—words are little aid To Love, whose deepest vows are ever made By the heart's beat alone. Oh, silence is Love's own peculiar eloquence of bliss!"

"How very desolate that breast must be, Whose only joyance is in memory! And what must woman suffer, thus betrayed?— Her heart's most warm and precious feelings made But things wherewith to wound: that heart—so weak, So soft—laid open to the vulture's beak!"

"The lines were fill'd with many a tender thing, All the impassion'd heart's fond communing."

"It must be worth a life of toil and care,— Worth those dark chains the wearied one must bear Who toils up fortune's steep,—all that can wring The worn-out bosom with lone-suffering,— Worth restlessness, oppression, goading fears, And long-deferred hopes of many years,— To reach again that little quiet spot, So well loved once, and never quite forgot;— To trace again the steps of infancy, And catch their freshness from their memory!"