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Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
- [Haste : Hate]
Methinks a being that is beautiful becometh more so as it looks on beauty, the eternal beauty of undying things.
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite.
Mighty Nature bounds as from her birth,
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam,
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
Must I consume my life--this little life,
In guarding against all may make it less?
It is not worth so much!--it were to die
Before my hour, to live in dread of death.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea:
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Here's a double health to thee!
- to Thomas Moore [Toasts]
My days of love are over: me no more
The charms of maid, wife, and still less of widow,
Can make the fool of; that they made before:
In fact I must not lead the life I did do.
My hair is grey, but not with years.
My native land, good-night!
- [Native Land]
My pen is at the bottom of a page,
Which being finished, here the story ends;
'Tis to be wish'd it had been sooner done,
But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
My sole resources in the path I trod,
Were these--my bark--my sword--my love--my God.
The last I left in youth--He leaves me now--
And man but works His will to lay me low.
I have no thought to mock His throne with prayer,
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair;
It is enough--I breathe--and I can bear.
My soul is dark! oh quickly string
The harp I yet can brook to hear.
My spirit shrunk not to sustain
The searching throes of ceaseless pain;
Nor sought the self-accorded grave
Of ancient fool and modern knave.
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are; even I
Regain'd my freedom with a sigh.
Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.
No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.
None are all evil.
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
Not all the marvels of Barossa's fight,
Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.
When shall her olive-branch be free from blight?
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
And Freedom's stranger-tree grow native of the soil!
Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers in her lips;
To some she whispers, others speaks aloud;
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips.
Now, my sere fancy "falls into the yellow
Leaf," and imagination droops her pinion;
And the sad truth, which hovers o'er my desk,
Turns what was once romantic to burlesque.
O thou beautiful
And unimaginable ether! and
Ye multiplying masses of increased
And still increasing lights! what are ye? what
Is this blue wilderness of interminable
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden?
Is your course measur'd for ye? Or do ye
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry
Through an aerial universe of endless
Expansion,--at which my soul aches to think,--
Intoxicated with eternity?
O ye who teach the ingenuous youth of nations--
Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain;
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals--never mind the pain.
Of all appeals,--although
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold,
Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,--no
Methods more sure at moments to take hold,
Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow
More tender, as we every day behold,
Than that all-softening, overpow'ring knell,
The tocsin of the soul--the Dinner Bell.
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