Short Story Writers From England

"His cheek was pale as marble, and as cold; But his lip trembled not, and his dark eyes Glanced proudly round. But when they bared his breast For the death-shot, and took a portrait thence, He clenched his hands, and gasped, and one deep sob Of agony burst from him; and he hid His face awhile—his mother's look was there. He could not steel his soul when he recalled The bitterness of her despair. It passed— That moment of wild anguish; he knelt down; That sunbeam shed its glory over one, Young, proud, and brave, nerved in deep energy; The next fell over cold and bloody clay. . . ."

"It is a sweet, albeit most painful, feeling To know we are regretted."

"How many glorious structures we had raised Upon Hope's sandy basis!"

"Death's a fearful thing when we must count its steps!"

"An Alma girl! oh shame, deep shame, To Brahma's race and Brahma's name! Unmarked, unpitied, she turned aside, For a moment her bursting tears to hide. None thought of the Bayadere, till the fire Blazed redly and fiercely the funeral pyre, Then like a thought she darted by, And sprang on the burning pile to die!"

"Yet gazed MANDALLA on the square As she he sought still glided there,— Oh that fond look, whose eyeballs' strain, And will not know its look is vain! At length he turned,—his silent mood Sought that impassioned solitude, The Eden of young hearts, when first Love in its loneliness is nurst."

"The loorie brought to his cinnamon nest. The bee from the midst of its honey quest, And open the leaves of the lotus lay To welcome the noon of the summer day."

"And the hall is lone, and the hall is drear, For the smiling of woman shineth not here."

"'Tis something, if in absence we can see The footsteps of the past:—it soothes the heart To breathe the air scented in other years By lips beloved; to wander through the groves Where once we were not lonely,—"

"Delicious tears! the heart's own dew."

"Love is like the glass, That throws its own rich colour over all, And makes all beautiful."

"I do love violets: They tell the history of woman's love; They open with the earliest breath of spring; Lead a sweet life of perfume, dew, and light; And, if they perish, perish with a sigh Delicious as that life."

"There was a grave just closed. Not one seemed near, To pay the tribute of one long—last tear! How very desolate must that one be, Whose more than grave has not a memory!"

"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!"

"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!"

"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!"

"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,"

"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 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!"

"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 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."

"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."

"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"

"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;"

"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."

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

"... 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."

"'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."

"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 !"

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

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

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

"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."

"Methinks we must have known some former state More glorious than our present, and the heart Is haunted with dim memories, shadows left By past magnificence; and hence we pine With vain aspirings, hopes that fill the eyes With bitter tears for their own vanity."

"-- social life is fill'd With doubts and vain aspirings; solitude, When the imagination is dethroned, Is turned to weariness."

"How noble and ennobling!—but within How mean, how poor, how pitiful, how mix'd With base alloy; how Disappointment tracks The steps of Hope; how Envy dogs success; How every victor's crown is lined with thorns, And worn mid scoffs!"

"I may be kind, And meet with kindness, yet be lonely still; For gratitude is not companionship.—"

"I am vain—praise is opium, and the lip Cannot resist the fascinating draught, Though knowing its excitement is a fraud— Delirious—a mockery of fame."

"I speak of my own feelings—I can judge Of others but by outward show, and that Is falser than the actor's studied part. We dress our words and looks in borrow'd robes: The mind is as the face—for who goes forth In public walks without a veil at least?"

"I did not choose my gift:—too soon my heart, Watch-like, had pointed to a later hour Than time had reach'd: and as my years pass'd on, Shadows and floating visions grew to thoughts, And thoughts found words, the passionate words of song, And all to me was poetry."

"I am a woman:—tell me not of fame."

"'Tis this which makes The best assurance of our promised heaven: This triumph intellect has over death— Our words yet live on others' lips; our thoughts Actuate others. Can that man be dead Whose spiritual influence is upon his kind?"

"Do you know that conversation is one of the greatest pleasures in life? But it wants leisure."