People From London

"Water—the mighty, the pure, the beautiful, the unfathomable—where is thy element so glorious as it is in thine own domain, the deep seas ? What an infinity of power is in the far Atlantic, the boundary of two separate worlds, apart like those of memory and of hope ! or in the bright Pacific, whose tides are turned to gold by a southern sun, and in whose bosom sleep a thousand isles, each covered with the verdure, the flowers, and the fruit of Eden ! But, amid all thy hereditary kingdoms, to which hast thou given beauty, as a birthright, lavishly as thou hast to thy favourite Mediterranean ? The silence of a summer night is now sleeping on its bosom, where the bright stars are mirrored, as if in its depths they had another home and another heaven. A spirit, cleaving air midway between the two, might have paused to ask which was sea, and which was sky. The shadows of earth and earthly things, resting omen-like upon the waters, alone shewed which was the home and which the mirror of the celestial host."

"For a discussion of some of the contents of this significant cultural volume, see Adriana Craciun, ‘Fatal Women of Romanticism’, Cambridge University Press, 2004, page 204. The section ‘The Enchantress’ here begins by describing that first story as a ‘self-consciously Byronic text’ that ‘develops a Promethean, distinctly Luciferian model of poetic identity and self-creation’."

"I would give worlds, could I believe One-half that is profess'd me; Affection! could I think it Thee, When Flattery has caress'd me."

"My tears are buried in my heart, Like cave-locked fountains sleeping."

"Another year, another year,— Alas! and must it be That Time's most dark and weary wheel Must turn again for me?"

"And this is the sum of our mortal state, The hopes we number,— Feverish waking, danger, death, And listless slumber."

"Let music make less terrible The silence of the dead; I care not, so my spirit last Long after life has fled."

"But song has touch'd my lips with fire, And made my heart a shrine; For what, although alloy'd, debased, Is in itself divine."

"I have such eagerness of hope To benefit my kind; And feel as if immortal power Were given to my mind."

"Well, read my cheek, and watch my eye,— Too strictly school'd are they, One secret of my soul to show, One hidden thought betray."

"Alas! We give our destiny from our own hands, And trust to those most frail of all frail things, The chances of humanity."

"Who shall say The love of genius is a common thing, Such as the many feel—half selfishness, Half vanity?—for genius is divine, And, like a god, doth turn its dwelling-place Into a temple; and the heart redeem'd By its fine influence is immortal shrine For love's divinity."

"For wishes are effectual but by will, And that too much is impotent and void In frail humanity; and time steals by Sinful and wavering, and unredeem'd."

"In this our social state, where petty cares And mercenary interests only look Upon the present's littleness, and shrink From the bold future, and the stately past,—"

"Are we not like that actor of old time, Who wore his mask so long his face took Its likeness?"

"The woman was in abject misery—that worst of poverty, which is haunted by shame—the only relic left by better days. She shrunk from all efforts at recovery, refused to administer the medicines, and spoke of the child's death but as a blessing. My God! and is the daily page of life Darken'd with wretchedness like this?"

"Oh never another dream can be Like that early dream of ours, When the fairy Hope lay down to sleep, Like a child, among the flowers."

"'Tis well: the rack, the chain, the wheel, Far better had'st thou proved; Ev'n I could almost pity feel, For thou art not beloved."

"I'm weary, I'm weary,—this cold world of ours; I will go dwell afar, with fairies and flowers. . . . . I'm weary, I'm weary,—I'm off with the wind: Can I find a worse fate than the one left behind?"

"Free, thou sayest,—dream'st thou how? Loathing wouldst thou shun dismay'd Freedom by such ransom paid. —Girl, for thee I'll lay aside Veil of smiles and mask of pride; Shrowds that only ask of Fate Not to seem so desolate. —I am young,—but Age's snow Hides not colder depths below ..."

"Spirit, that ruleth man's life to its ending, Chance, Fortune, Fate, answer my summoning now; The storm o'er the face of the night is descending,— Fair moon, the dark clouds hide thy silvery brow. Let these bring thy answer, and tell me if sadness For ever man's penance and portion must be; Doth the morning come forth from a birthplace of gladness? Is there peace, is there rest, in thine empire or thee?"

"The heart hath its mystery, and who may reveal it, Or who ever read in the depths of their own? — How much, we never may speak of, yet feel it, But, even in feeling it, know it unknown!"

"How deep, how merciless, the love represt, That robs the silent midnight of its rest; That sees in gather'd crowds but one alone; That hears in mingled footsteps only one; That turns the poet's page, to only find Some mournful image for itself design'd; That seeks in music, but the plaining tone Which secret sorrow whispers is its own!"

"How can they say confiding is relief? Light are the woes that to the eyelids spring, Subdued and soften'd by the tears they bring; But there are some too long, too well conceal'd, Too deeply felt,—that are but once reveal'd: Like the withdrawing of the mortal dart, And then the life-blood follows from the heart; Sorrow, before unspoken by a sigh, But which, once spoken, only hath to die.—"

"Thy voice is sweet, as if it took Its music from thy face. And word and mien, and step and look, Are perfect in their grace."

"Alas! the praise given to the ear Ne'er was nor e'er can be sincere— And does but waste away the mind On which it preys:—in vain Would they in whom its poison lurks A worthier state attain."

"Thou blessed season of our spring, When hopes are angels on the wing; Bound upwards to their heavenly shore, Alas! to visit earth no more."

"The early graced of Grecian song, The fragrant myrtle tree; For it doth speak of happy love, The delicate, the true."

"I am spectator, not partaker, here. To me it seems more like a pageant made To represent mirth, than the mirth itself."

"Blue hyacinths! Oh, do not show them me; they fill my eyes With tears too soft for such a scene as this."

"A weight is on the air, for ev'ry breeze Has, bird-like, folded up its wings for sleep."

"I can pass days Stretch'd in the shade of those old cedar trees, Watching the sunshine like a blessing fall,— The breeze like music wandering o'er the boughs,— Each tree a natural harp,— each different leaf A different note, blent in one vast thanks-giving."

"Now I have no hope that does not dream for thee; I have no joy that is not shared by thee; I have no fear that does not dread for thee."

"the hollow voice Of that old crone, the only living sound; Her face, on which mortality has writ Its closing, with the wan and bony hand, Raised like a spectre's—and yourself the while, Cold from the midnight chill, and white with fear, Your large blue eyes darker and larger grown With terror's chain'd attention, and your breath Suppress'd for very earnestness."

"IT is in this we differ; I would seek To blend my very being into thine— I'm even jealous of thy memory: I wish our childhood had been pass'd together."

"Peace to the weary and the beating heart, That fed upon itself!"

"There was a sculptured form; the feet were placed Upon a finely-carved rose wreath; the arms Were raised to Heaven, as if to clasp the stars EULALIA leant beside; 'twas hard to say Which was the actual marble: when she spoke, You started, scarce it seem'd a human sound; But the eyes' lustre told life linger'd still; And now the moonlight seem'd to fill their depths."

"Alas! we make A ladder of our thoughts, where angels step, But sleep ourselves at the foot: our high resolves Look down upon our slumbering acts."

"I held that Love Which chooseth from a thousand only one, To be the object of that tenderness Natural to every heart; which can resign Its own best happiness for one dear sake; Can bear with absence; hath no part in Hope,— For Hope is somewhat selfish, Love is not,— And doth prefer another to itself."

"Remembrance makes the poet; 'tis the past Lingering within him, with a keener sense Than is upon the thoughts of common men Of what has been, that fills the actual world With unreal likenesses of lovely shapes, That were and are not; and the fairer they, The more their contrast with existing things, The more his power, the greater is his grief."

"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?"

"—I never saw more perfect loveliness. It ask'd, it had no aid from dress: her robe Was white, and simply gather'd in such folds As suit a statue: neck and arms were bare; The black hair was unbound, and like a veil Hung even to her feet; she held a lute, And, as she paced the ancient gallery, waked A few wild chords, and murmur'd low sweet words, But scarcely audible, as if she thought Rather than spoke:—the night, the solitude, Fill'd the young Pythoness with poetry."