THE MOST EXTENSIVE
ON THE INTERNET
All that I know is, that the facts I state
Are true as truth has ever been of late.
All that the mind would shrink from, of excesses;
All that the body perpetrates, of bad;
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses;
All that the devil would do, if run stark mad;
All that defies the worst which pen expresses
All by which hell is peopled, or is sad
As hell--mere mortals who their power abuse--
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.
- [Graves : War]
All was prepared--the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerves and sinews bent to slay--
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain,
Immediately in others grew again.
Ambiguous things that ape goats in their visage, women in their shape.
And all may think which way their judgments lead 'em.
O'er erring deeds and thoughts a heav'nly hue
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they pass'd.
And glory long has made the sages smile;
'Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind--
Depending more upon the historian's style
Than on the name a person leaves behind.
And mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, and yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer.
And o'er that fair broad brow were wrought
The intersected lines of thought;
Those furrows, which the burning share
Of sorrow ploughs untimely there:
Scars of the lacerating mind,
Which the soul's war doth leave behind.
And rash enthusiasm in good society
Were nothing but a moral inebriety.
And the whole world would henceforth be a wider prison unto me.
And though, as you remember, in a fit
Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly,
I railed at Scots to show my wrath and wit,
Which must be owned was sensitive and surly,
Yet 'tis in vain such sallies to permit,
They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early:
I "scotched, not killed" the Scotchman in my blood,
And love the land of "mountain and of flood."
Around her shone
The nameless charms unmark'd by her alone.
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,
And, oh! that eye was in itself a soul.
As fierce as hell, or fiercer still,
A woman piqued who has her will.
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink o'er the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seem'd stirr'd with prayer.
Soft hour! which makes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day;
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying day's decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!
Away! we know that tears are vain, that death ne'er heeds nor hears distress.
Beautiful spirit, with thy hair of light and dazzling eyes of glory!
Before decay's effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.
- [Death : Decay]
Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands.
Born to be ploughed with years, and sown with cares, and reaped by Death, lord of the human soil.
But all have prices,
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
But passion raves herself to rest, or flies;
And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:
Pleasure's pall'd victim! life-abhorring gloom
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cain's unresting doom.
But scandal's my aversion--I protest
Against all evil speaking, even in jest.
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