Grief should be the instructor of the wise; Sorrow is Knowledge.
I have not loved the World, nor the World me; I have not flattered its rank breath, nor bowed To its idolatries a patient knee, Nor coined my cheek to smiles,-nor cried aloud In worship of an echo.
But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise, – Death to his publisher, to him ’tis sport.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where, Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul? Gone – glimmering through the dream of things that were; First in the race that led to glory’s goal, They won, and pass’d away – Is this the whole?
When Bishop Berkeley said “there was no matter.” And proved it – ’t was no matter what he said.
Like to the apples on the Dead Sea’s shore, All ashes to the taste.
Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o’er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company – the gout or stone.
Age shakes Athena’s tower, but spares gray Marathon.
Not to admire, is all the art I know To make men happy, or to keep them so. Thus Horace wrote we all know long ago; And thus Pope quotes the precept to re-teach From his translation; but had none admired, Would Pope have sung, or Horace been inspired?
But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
Father of Light! great God of Heaven! Hear’st thou the accents of despair? Can guilt like man’s be e’er forgiven? Can vice atone for crimes by prayer.
Love rules the camp, the court, the grove – for love is Heaven, and Heaven is love.
Religion-freedom-vengeance-what you will, A word’s enough to raise mankind to kill.
Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more! though fallen, great!
Think’st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs.
There is, in fact, no law or government at all; and it is wonderful how well things go on without them.
The French courage proceeds from vanity.
Armenian is the language to speak with God.
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains; They crown’d him long ago On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds, With a diadem of snow.
He makes a solitude, and calls it – peace!