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And mark the wretch, whose wanderings never knew
The world's regard, that soothes, though half untrue;
Whose erring heart the lash of sorrow bore,
But found not pity when it err'd no more.
Yon friendless man, at whose dejected eye
Th' unfeeling proud one looks, and passes
Condemn'd on penury's barren path to roam,
Scorn'd by the world, and left without a home.
And rival all but Shakespeare's name below.
And what the actor could effect,
The scholar could presage.
Angels for the good man's sin wept to record, and blushed to give it in.
Beauty is a beam from heaven that dazzles blind our reason.
Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smiles.
But can the noble mind for ever brood,
The willing victim of a weary mood,
On heartless cares that squander life away,
And cloud young Genius bright'ning into day?
Cold in the dust this perished heart may lie, but that which warmed it once shall never die.
Coming events cast their shadows before.
Faithful to its sacred page. Heaven stills rebuilds thy span.
He scorned his own, who felt another's woe.
He scorns his own who feels another's woe.
He, with delirious laugh, the dagger hurl'd,
And burst the ties that bound him to the world!
I alone am left on earth!
To whom nor relative nor blood remains,
No! not a kindred drop that runs in human veins.
I am convinced that there is no man that knows life well, and remembers all the incidents of his past experience who would accept it again; we are certainly here to punish precedent sins.
In the human breast two master-passions cannot coexist.
Let us do or die.
Like angel visits, few and far between.
Melt, and dispel, ye spectre doubts that roll
Cimmerian darkness o'er the parting soul.
Oh! lives there, Heaven! beneath thy dread expanse,
One hopeless, dark idolater of chance,
Content to feed with pleasures unrefin'd,
The lukewarm passions of a lowly mind;
Who mouldering earthward, 'reft of every trust,
In joyless union wedded to the dust,
Could all his parting energy dismiss,
And call this barren world sufficient bliss?
One could take down a book from a shelf ten tines more wise and witty than almost any man's conversation. Bacon is wiser, Swift more humorous, than any person one is likely to meet with; but they cannot chime in with the exact frame of thought in which we happen to take them down from our shelves. Therein lies the luxury of conversation: and when a living speaker does not yield us that luxury, he becomes only a book on two legs.
Poor child of danger, nursling of the storm,
Sad are the woes that wreck thy manly form!
Rocks, waves, and winds, the shattered bark delay,
Thy heart is sad, thy home is far away.
Sorrow returned with the dawning of morn, and the voice in my dreaming ear melted away.
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
'T is the sunset of life gives us mystical lore.
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