"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?"

"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 ..."

"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?"

"'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."

"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."

"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?"

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

"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,—"

"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."

"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."

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

"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."

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

"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."

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

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

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

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

"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."

"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’."

"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."

"We step not over the threshold of childhood till led by Love"

"Strange, that ignorance should be our best happiness in this life, and yet be the one we are ever striving to destroy !"

"The weakness of our nature—how soon any strong emotion masters it !"

"I had lost of humanity but its illusions, and they alone are what render it supportable."

"Truly, night was made for sleep; since to its wakeful hours belongs an oppression unknown to the very dreariest hours of day. The stillness is so deep, the solitude so unbroken, the fever brought on by want of rest so weakens the nerves, that the imagination exercises despotic and unwholesome power, till, if the heart have a fear or a sorrow, up it arises in all the force and terror of gigantic exaggeration."

"For when do friends not delight in the sorrow of the prosperous?"

"He who seeks pleasure with reference to himself, not others, will ever find that pleasure is only another name for discontent."

"In sad truth, half our forebodings of our neighbours are but our own wishes, which we are ashamed to utter in any other form."

"How often will the lip frame some indifferent question, when the heart is full of the most important!"

"How strong is the love of the country in all indwellers of towns !"

"Curious it is that every hour of our day is repeated from myriad chimes; and yet how rarely do we attend to the clock striking! Alas! how emblematic is this of the way in which we neglect the many signs of time! How terrible, when we think of what time may achieve, is the manner in which we waste it! At the end of every man's life, at least three-quarters of the mighty element of which that life was composed will be found void—lost—nay, utterly forgotten! And yet that time, laboured and husbanded, might have built palaces, gathered wealth, and, still greater, made an imperishable name."

"Poverty is a terrible thing when it bows to the very ground the pride of the strong man—a terrible thing when it leaves old age destitute: till, the strong man may yet redeem his fortunes, and that old age may have had enjoyment while it was capable of enjoying. But a child, with the step slow from weakness, which from its age should be so buoyant; a cheek thin and white from hunger, at a period which especially cares for food (for all children are greedy); a form shrivelled with cold; a growth stopped by work too laborious for such tender years; a spirit broken by toil, want, and harshness; —is not such a child poverty's most miserable spectacle? It is, however, a common one."

"{of Theatres} There, while weeping for sorrows which are not, laughing at the light jest or the ludicrous misadventure, how little is remembered of the want which makes fear the only bond that binds the living to life !"

"Good and evil ! good and evil ! ye are mingled inextricably in the web of our being ; and who may unthread the darker yarn ?"

"There must be some deep-rooted anti-social principle in every man's nature, so dearly does he love aught that separates him from his kind ; or is it but one of the many shapes taken by that mental kaleidoscope, vanity, the varying and the glittering, the desire of distinction, sinking into that of notice?"

"The peasant boy, who followed the coloured track of the rainbow, hoping to find the blue and charmed flower which springs where the arch touches earth, is wiser far than one who gives youth, genius, and time to literature."

"What a mistake rage is ! anger should never go beyond a sneer, if it really desires revenge."

"Distinction is purchased at the expense of sympathy"

"We again repeat, that there is no temper so communicative as an imaginative one."

"... who has not experienced, at some time or other, that words had all the relief of tears?"

"Not that we would detract one iota from the benevolence which does exist in humanity ; there is both more gratitude and more cause for gratitude than it is the fashion now-a-days to admit: but this we do say, that the obligation is never from those on whom we have a claim. Kindness is always unexpected; and “overcomes us like a summer cloud," exciting our "special wonder" as well as thankfulness."

"What a falsehood it is to say that genius and industry are incompatible ! Does one work of genius exist that has not also been a work of labour ?"

"—to enjoy yourself is the easy method to give enjoyment to others; ..."

"A despotic power makes slaves."

"I rather disdained than coveted the luxuries I saw : alas ! we desire riches more for others than ourselves."

"—vanity, like all social vices, craves for novelty ;"

"—true love is like religion, it hath its silence and its sanctity."

"They say gravity is the centre of attraction ; I rather think that noise is. Nothing so soon assembles the inhabitants of a house as a loud and sudden noise : ..."

"... when was a woman ever witty without being bitter?"