So bright the tear in Beauty’s eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.
There is a tear for all who die, A mourner o’er the humblest grave.
Go let thy less than woman’s hand Assume the distaff not the brand.
Egypt! from whose all dateless tombs arose Forgotten Pharaohs from their long repose, And shook within their pyramids to hear A new Cambyses thundering in their ear; While the dark shades of forty ages stood Like startled giants by Nile’s famous flood.
Oh! too convincing – dangerously dear – In woman’s eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue – at once her spear and shield.
What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where’er I be, The blight of life – the demon Thought.
I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse borne away with every breath! Misplaced upon the throne misplaced in life. I know not what I could have been, but feel I am not what I should be let it end.
I loved my country, and I hated him.
Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down Over the waste of waters; like a veil, Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown Of one whose hate is mask’d but to assail.
Bologna is celebrated for producing popes, painters, and sausage.
The Niobe of nations! there she stands.
Ecclesiastes said that “all is vanity,” Most modern preachers say the same, or show it By their examples of true Christianity: In short, all know, or very short may know it.
The heart ran o’er With silent worship of the great of old! – The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.
Do proper homage to thine idol’s eyes; But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.
The devil hath not, in all his quiver’s choice, An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
Which cheers the sad, revives the old, inspires The young, makes Weariness forget his toil, And Fear her danger; opens a new world When this, the present, palls.
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 .