"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."

"Well may storm be on the sky, And the waters roll on high, When MANMADIN passes by. Earth below and heaven above Well may bend to thee, oh Love!"

"Yet one arrow has a power Lasting till life's latest hour-- Weary day and sleepless night, Lightning gleams of fierce delight, Fragrant and yet poisoned sighs, Agonies and ecstasies; Hopes, like fires amid the gloom, Lighting only to consume!"

"Pillowed on a lotus flower, Gathered in a summer hour, Rides he o'er the mountain wave Which would be a tall ship's grave! At his back his bow is slung, Sugar-cane, with wild bees strung,—"

"He sung,—the notes at first were low, Like the whispers of love, or the breathings of woe: The waters were hushed, and the winds were stay'd, As he sang his farewell to his Lesbian maid!"

"What is the light of a poet's name, If it is not his country that hallows his fame? Where may he look for guerdon so fair As the honour and praise that await him there? His name will be lost and his grave forgot, If the tears of his country preserve them not! . . ."

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

"I would not even have him weep O'er his Italian love's last sleep. Oh, tears are a most worthless token, When hearts they would have soothed are broken."

"I left my home, and I was left A stranger in his land, bereft Of even hope; there was not one Familiar face to look upon.— Their speech was strange."

"He knelt him down on the new-raised mound, His face was bowed on the cold damp ground, He raised his head, his tears were done, The father had prayed o'er his only son!"

"AND the muffled drum rolled on the air, Warriors with stately step were there; On every arm was the black crape bound, Every carbine was turned to the ground: Solemn the sound of their measured tread, As silent and slow they followed the dead. The riderless horse was led in the rear, There were white plumes waving over the bier: Helmet and sword were laid on the pall, For it was a soldier's funeral."

"Love, thou hast hopes like summers, short and bright, Moments of ecstasy, and maddening dreams, Intense delicious throbs!"

"Ah! love is even more fragile than its gifts! A tress of raven hair:--oh, only those Whose souls have felt this one idolatry Can tell how precious is the slightest thing Affection gives and hallows."

"All, lingering, stayed to gaze Upon this Eden of the painter's art, And looking on its loveliness, forgot The crowded world around them!—"

"— a poet's love Is immortality!"

"Hope is love's happiness, but not its life;— How many hearts have nourished a vain flame In silence and in secret, though they knew They fed the scorching fire that would consume them!"

"Oh, all Know love is woman's happiness."

"Thrice hallowed shrine Of the heart's intercourse, our own fireside!"

"How I pity those whose childhood has been unhappy! to them one of the sweetest springs of feeling has been utterly denied, the most green and beautiful part of life laid waste."

"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."

"Whoever converses much among the old books, will be something hard to please among the new."

"All the precepts of Christianity agree to teach and command us to moderate our passions, to temper our affections towards all things below; to be thankful for the possession, and patient under the loss whenever he that gave it shall see fit to take away."

"From these famous Indians, it seems most probable that Pythagoras learned, and transported into Greece and Italy, the greatest part of his natural and moral philosophy, rather than from the Aegyptians ... Nor does it seem unlikely that the Aegyptians themselves might have drawn much of their learning from the Indians ..long before .. Lycurgus, who likewise traveled to India, brought from thence also the chief principles of his laws."

"When these children are four years old, they shall be sent to the country workhouse and there taught to read two hours a day and kept fully employed the rest of their time in any of the manufactures of the house which best suits their age, strength and capacity. If it be objected that at these early years, they cannot be made useful, I reply that at four years of age there are sturdy employments in which children can earn their living; but besides, there is considerable use in their being, somehow or other, constantly employed at least twelve hours in a day, whether they earn a living or not; for by these means, we hope that the rising generation will be so habituated to constant employment that it would at length prove agreeable and entertaining to them..."

"No clap of thunder in a fair frosty day could astonish the world more than [England's] declaration of war against Holland in 1672."

"When all is done, human life is, at the greatest, and the best, but like a froward child, that must be played with and humored a little to keep it quiet till it falls asleep, and then the care is over."

"Books, like proverbs, receive their chief value from the stamp and esteem of ages through which they have passed."

"Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling Your ring?" Said the Piggy, "I will."

"They sailed away for a year and a day To the land where the bong-tree grows."

"Pussy said to the Owl, "You elegant fowl! How charmingly sweet you sing! O let us be married! too long we have tarried: But what shall we do for a ring?""

"The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea In a beautiful pea green boat, They took some honey, and plenty of money, Wrapped up in a five pound note. The Owl looked up to the stars above, And sang to a small guitar, "O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love, What a beautiful Pussy you are, You are, You are! What a beautiful Pussy you are!""

"On a little heap of Barley Died my aged uncle Arly, And they buried him one night;— Close beside the leafy thicket;— There, his hat and Railway-Ticket;— There, his ever-faithful Cricket;— (But his shoes were far too tight.)"

"Ploffskin, Pluffskin, Pelican jee! We think no Birds so happy as we! Plumpskin, Ploshkin, Pelican jill! We think so then, and we thought so still!"

"It's a fact the whole world knows, That Pebbles are happier without their toes."

"The Pobble who has no toes Had once as many as we; When they said, "Some day you may lose them all;"— He replied, — "Fish fiddle de-dee!""

"When awful darkness and silence reign Over the great Gromboolian plain, Through the long, long wintry nights. When the angry breakers roar As they beat on the rocky shore;— When Storm-clouds brood on the towering heights Of the Hills of the Chankly Bore"

"On the top of the Crumpetty Tree The Quangle Wangle sat, But his face you could not see, On account of his Beaver Hat."

"Who, or why, or which, or what, Is the Akond of Swat?"

"Calico Jam, The little Fish swam, Over the syllabub sea, He took off his hat, To the Sole and the Sprat, And the Willeby-Wat,— But he never came back to me!"