Sweet is old wine in bottles, ale in barrels.
As winds come whispering lightly from the West, Kissing, not ruffling, the blue deep’s serene.
Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years .
Lord of himself; that heritage of woe!
I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse – borne away with every breath!
Tyranny Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem None rebels except subjects? The prince who Neglects or violates his trust is more A brigand than the robber-chief.
The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.
I hate all pain, Given or received; we have enough within us The meanest vassal as the loftiest monarch, Not to add to each other’s natural burden Of mortal misery.
Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep From leaf to leaf.
Accursed be the city where the laws would stifle nature’s!
Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.
Glory, like the phoenix ’midst her fires, Exhales her odours, blazes, and expires.
To what gulfs A single deviation from the track Of human duties leads even those who claim The homage of mankind as their born due, And find it, till they forfeit it themselves!
It is not for minds like ours to give or to receive flatter; yet the praises of sincerity have ever been permitted to the voice of friendship.
Oh, for a forty-parson power to chant Thy praise, Hypocrisy! Oh, for a hymn Loud as the virtues thou dost loudly vaunt, Not practise!
Cervantes smiled Spain’s chivalry away.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue ocean.
Where are the forms the sculptor’s soul hath seized? In him alone, Can nature show as fair?
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek’d the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap’d overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.