What can they see in the longest kingly line in Europe, save that it runs back to a successful soldier?
In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war’s rattle With groans of the dying.
Within that awful volume lies The mystery of mysteries!
Where, where was Roderick then? One blast upon his bugle horn Were worth a thousand men.
Still are the thoughts to memory dear.
What I have to say is far more important than how long my eyelashes are.
There is a southern proverb – fine words butter no parsnips.
The race of humankind would perish did they cease to aid each other.
Call it not vain: they do not err Who say that when the poet dies Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies.
Woman’s faith and woman’s trust, Write the characters in dust.
In man’s most dark extremity Oft succour dawns from Heaven.
Great talent has always a little madness mixed up with it.
And better had they ne’er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
Welcome as the flowers in May.
On his bold visage middle age Had slightly press’d its signet sage, Yet had not quench’d the open truth And fiery vehemence of youth: Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare.
Some feelings are to mortals given With less of earth in them than heaven.
Steady of heart and stout of hand.
O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood; Land of the mountain and the flood!
Saint George and the Dragon!-Bonny Saint George for Merry England!-The castle is won!
Tell that to the marines – the sailors won’t believe it.