Poets From England

"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."

"Now, bitter, but useful, mortification is the steppingstone to knowledge, even in a child."

"How many children, discontented with the exercise of needful authority, might learn submission and thankfulness from the lot of others ; such a temper as that we have been describing is very uncommon ; the treatment of children oftener errs on the side of over-indulgence than aught else. How many might be taught better to appreciate the blessings which surround them by considering what some, less fortunate than themselves, are called upon to endure !"

"I believe the love of flowers to be as inherent in the disposition as any other inclination."

"Nothing discourages a child so much as the impossibility of pleasing."

"What a duty it is to cultivate a pleasant manner ! how many a meeting does it make cheerful which would otherwise have been stupid and formal! We do not mean by this the mere routine of polite observance, but we mean that general cheerfulness which, like the sunshine lights up whatever it touches, that attention to others which discovers what subject is most likely to interest them, and that information which, ready for use, is easily laid under contribution by the habit of turning all resources to immediate employ. In short, a really pleasant manner grows out of benevolence, which can be as much shown in a small courtesy as in a great service."

"... any one who has noticed may have observed that the weeping of grown up persons produces a sensation of awe on the mind of a child. Accustomed to associate the idea of superiority with that of their elders, they cannot understand their giving way to the same emotions as themselves."

"Selfishness is hypocritical by nature, and seizes on the first decent excuse as a cloak ;"

"There are always an ample sufficiency of compassionate neighbours ready to console one who, by common consent, is styled "the disconsolate widower.”"

"... happiness is not for this world — a conviction that cannot be too soon acquired : it will destroy a thousand vain expectations, dissipate the most perplexing of our illusions — the early knowledge that life is but a trial, whose triumph is hereafter, and this earth a place appointed for that sorrow and patient endurance which is gradually fitting us for a better and a happier state."

"Sympathy is the surest destruction of selfishness. Children, like the grown person, grow the better for participation in the sufferings where their own only share is pity."

"This volume was written for children. Miss Landon set out its purpose in the preface."

"THE fountain's low singing is heard on the wind, Like a melody bringing sweet fancies to mind; Some to grieve, some to gladden: around them they cast The hopes of the morrow, the dreams of the past. Away in the distance is heard the vast sound, From the streets of the city that compass it round, Like the echo of mountains, or ocean's deep call; Yet that fountain's low singing is heard over all."

"A single grave! —the only one In this unbroken ground, Where yet the garden leaf and flower Are lingering around."

"The heavy bridge confines your stream, Through which the barges toil, Smoke has shut out the sun's glad beam, Thy waves have caught the soil. On—on—though weariness it be, By shoal and barrier cross'd, Till thou hast reach'd the mighty sea, And there art wholly lost."

"God ! that this Earth should be so beautiful, And yet so wretched !"

"It shock'd me first to see the sun Shine gladly o'er thy tomb; To see the wild flowers o'er it run In such luxuriant bloom. Now I feel glad that they should keep A bright sweet watch above thy sleep."

"Ah! it is well we can forget, Or who could linger on Beneath a sky whose stars are set, On earth whose flowers are gone? For who could welcome loved ones near, Thinking of those once far more dear,"

"To this fine spirit our earth owes her greatest: For the future is purchased by scorning the present, And life is redeemed from its clay soil by fame. * King, not a vestige remains of your palaces; Conqueror, forgotten the fame of your battles: But the Poet yet lives in the sweetness of music— He appeal'd to the heart, that never forgets."

". . . the desolate Is doubly sorrowful when it recalls It was not always desolate."

"For human tears are lava-drops, That scorch and wither as they flow; Then let them flow for those who live, And not for those who sleep below."

"Those sweet, vague sounds are on the air, Half sleep, half song--half false, half true, As if the wind that brought them there Had touched them with its music too."

"The shadow of the church falls o'er the ground, Hallowing its place of rest; and here the dead Slumber, where all religious impulses, And sad and holy feelings, angel like, Make the spot sacred with themselves, and wake Those sorrowful emotions in the heart Which purify it, like a temple meet For an unearthly presence. Life, vain Life, The bitter and the worthless, wherefore here Do thy remembrances intrude?"

"His shroud was damp, his face was white: He said,—"I cannot sleep, Your tears have made my shroud so wet; Oh, mother, do not weep!" Oh, love is strong!—the mother's heart Was filled with tender fears; Oh, love is strong!—and for her child Her grief restrained its tears."

"Though many a flower may win my praise, The violet has my love; I did not pass my childish days In garden or in grove: My garden was the window-seat, Upon whose edge was set A little vase—the fair, the sweet— It was the violet."

"THE quiet of the evening hour Was laid on every summer leaf; That purple shade was on each flower, At once so beautiful, so brief, Only the aspen knew not rest, But still, with an unquiet song, Kept murmuring to the gentle west, And cast a changeful shade along."

"Beautiful wreck! for still thy face, Though changed, is very fair; Like beauty's moonlight, left to shew Her morning sun was there."

"A light is gone from yonder sky, A star has left its sphere; The beautiful--and do they die In yon bright world as here? Will that star leave a lonely place, A darkness on the night?— No; few will miss its lovely face, And none think heaven less bright!"

"In sooth, this earth is a lovely place; Pass not in darkness over her face; Yet call back thy words of doom— They are too gay and too fair for the tomb. . . . . And have seen--alas! 'tis but outward show— The sunshine of yon green earth below: Glad of rest must the wretched and way-worn be— Angel of Death, they are ready for thee!"