"The dream on the pillow, That flits with the day, The leaf of the willow A breath wears away; The dust on the blossom, The spray on the sea; Ay,—ask thine own bosom— Are emblems of thee."

"All over the world with thee, my love ! All over the world with thee ; I care not what sky may low'r above, Or how dark our path may be."

"Thou shalt bid thy fair hands rove O'er thy soft lute's silver slumbers, Waking sounds; of song and love In their sweet Italian numbers."

"Sweet Hope ! every pleasant flower Suns itself in thy glad power ; Every sorrow comes to thee, Desart fount for Misery !"

"Ah, Woman has no look so sweet As that, when, half afraid to meet The look she loves, blushes betray All the suppressed glance would say."

"Pictures, bright pictures, oh ! they are to me A world for thought to revel in. I love To give a history to every face, to think — As I thought with the painter — as I knew What his high communing had been."

"She held the cup ; and he the while Sat gazing on her playful smile, As all the wine he wished to sip Was one kiss from her rosebud lip."

"Glorious Bard ! to whom belong Wreaths not often claimed by song, Those hung round the warrior's shield— Laurels from the blood-red field."

"Dark night, Oh terrible is thy shadow on the battle ! Blows dealt alike on friend and foe, the dead , And dying trampled on— oh, day alone Should look upon the soldier's deeds !"

"Oh this is not that sweet love Own companion to the dove ; But a wild and wandering thing, Varying as the lights that fling Radiance o'er his peacock's wing. I do weep, that Love should be Ever linked with Vanity."

"There is a flower, a magical flower, On which love hath laid a fairy power ; Gather it on the eve of St. John, When the clock of the village is tolling one ; Let no look be turned, no word be said, And lay the rose-leaves under your head ; Your sleep will be light, and pleasant your rest, For your visions will be of the youth you love best."

"Never day-beam hath shone o'er Lovelier or wilder shore ! Half was land, and half was sea Where the eye could only see The blue sky for boundary."

"Words are powerless to tell. — Such the image in my heart, — Painter, try thy glorious art !"

"[Julian] Why did I try a faith I should have known Spotless as the white dove. I cannot feel The beating of her heart. I'll kiss the colour Back to her cheek. Oh, God ! her lip is ice — There is no breath upon it ! — AGNES, thy JULIAN is thy murderer !"

"[Julian - disguised] Oh, jealousy is but A shadow cast from vanity, which lain Would take the shape of love to hide its own Selfish deformity !"

"[Julian - disguised] The hunter turns not Despairing from the chase because the deer Flies from his pursuit : every obstacle Becomes a pleasure."

"My heart is with thee, Iove ! though now Thou'rt far away from me : I envy even my own thoughts, For they may fly to thee."

"Alas, the strange varieties or life ! We live 'mid perils and pleasures, like Characters 'graven on the sand, or hues Colouring the rainbow. Wild as a sick fancy And changeful as a maiden, is this dream, This brief dream on earth - - - -"

"Love has no power to look forward — the delicious consciousness of the present, a faint but delightful shadow of the past, form its eternity."

"A man above thirty cannot enter into the wild visions of an enthusiastic girl."

"A light compliment was never yet breathed by love."

"The Painter's skill has seized a moment where Her hand is wreathing mid his raven hair; And he is bent in worship, as that touch, That soft light touch, were ecstasy too much. He is just turned from that bewildering face To the fair arm that holds the magic vase — The purple liquor is just sparkling up — The youth has pledged his heart's truth on that cup!"

"Thrice venomed is the wound when 'tis Love's hand Inflicts the blow."

"Look upon that hour-marked round, Listen to that fateful sound ; There my silent hand is stealing. My more silent course revealing ; Wild, devoted Pleasure, hear, — Stay thee on thy mad career !"

"It was a beautiful embodied thought, A dream of the fine painter, one of those That pass by moonlight o'er the soul, and flit 'Mid the dim shades of twilight, when the eye Grows tearful with its ecstasy."

"We met in secret : mystery is to love Like perfume to the flower ; the maiden's blush Looks loveliest when her cheek is pale with fear."

"Ah, deeply the Minstrel has felt all he sings, Every passion he paints his own bosom has known ; No note of wild music is swept from the strings, But first his own feelings have echoed the tone."

"Down swept the gathered waters over rocks Which broke at times the column's foaming line ; Darkening amid the snow-white froth, it swept Like an all conquering army, and an arch Of sparkling hues that in the sunbeams played Seemed to unite it with the sky which hung Above all calmness and repose :"

"One rich light Broke thro' the shadow of the tempest's wing, While the black clouds, with gold and purple edged, Caught every moment warmer hues, until 'Twas all one sparkling arch, and, like a king In triumph o'er his foes, the Sun god sought The blue depths of the sea ; — the waters yet Were ruffled with the storm, and the white foam Yet floated on the billows, while the wind Murmured at times like to an angry child, Who sobs even in his slumber."

"Oh, blessedness ! To see the fair creations of the thought Assume a visible form ; sweet Poesy ! How witching is thy power upon the heart ; Enchantment that does bind our senses up In one unutterable influence ; A charmed spell set over every thought, Till life's whole hope is cast upon the lyre."

"A blossom full of promise is life's joy, That never comes to fruit; hope, for a time, Suns the young floweret in its gladsome light, And it looks flourishing—a little while, Tis past, we know not whither, but 'tis gone—"

"The path was new, and there was thrown A sweet veil over pleasure's ray ; But ignorance is happiness, When young Hope is to show the way;"

"These are thy bridal flowers I am now wreathing; This is thy marriage hymn I am now breathing."

"Then gaze not on other eyes, Love ; Breathe not other sighs, Love ; You may find many a brighter one Than your own rose, but there are none So true to thee, Love."

"He must be rich whom I could love, His fortune clear must be, Whether in land or in the funds, 'Tis all the same to me."

"How sweet on the breeze of the evening swells The vesper call of those soothing bells, Borne softly and dying in echoes away, Like a requiem sung to the parting day."

"“But our bird knew not of the free blue air, He had lived in his cage, and his home was there : No flight had he in the green wood flown — He pined not for freedom he never had known ! If he had lived amid leaf and bough It had been cruel to fetter him now ; For I have seen a poor bird die, And all for love of his native sky.”"

"“You said in our old ash-tree a bird had built its nest ; Perhaps this very linnet has there its place of rest. Now who will keep his little ones when night begins to fall ? They have no other shelter, and they will perish all. There'll be no more sweet singing within that lonely grove ; Now, Henry, free your prisoner, I pray you, for my love. Our father is a soldier, and in some distant war He too might be a prisoner in foreign lands afar.”"

"She said “Oh rather thank thy God, My lot is not thine own. How would my weary feet rejoice Like thine to walk and run Over the soft and fragrant grass, Beneath yon cheerful sun. And yet I trust to God's good will My spirit is resign'd ; Though sore my sickness, it is borne At least with patient mind. Though noble be my father's name, And vast my father's wealth; He would give all, could he but give His only child thy health ! Ah, judge not by the outside show Of this world, vain and frail —”"

"The Little Boy’s Bed-Time See under Translations"

"The poor child, as Charles Lamb so touchingly expresses it, is not brought, but "dragged out," and if the wits are sharpened, so, too, is the soft, round cheek. The crippled limb and broken constitution attest the effects of the over-early struggle with penury; but the child of rich parents suffers, though in another way; there is the heart that is crippled, by the selfishness of indulgence and the habit of relying upon others. It takes years of harsh contact with the realities of life to undo the enervating work of a spoilt and over aided childhood. We cannot too soon learn the strong and useful lessons of exertion and self-dependance."

"We read of the gales that bear from the shores of Ceylon the breathings of the cinnamon groves."

"It was an epoch in my life, it is an epoch in every child's life, the first reading of Robinson Crusoe."

"To know yourself less beloved than you love, is a dreadful feeling"

"In moments of great anxiety there is a sort of natural superstition about the heart, which the reason rejects in cooler moments."

"Children are too often unkind to one another, and deny the allowance they so much need in their own case."

"November's night is dark and drear, The dullest month of all the year."

"... we all know mysteries are very fascinating things."

"All beginnings are very troublesome things."

"Expectation makes a long delay."