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And Burns--though brief the race he ran, Though rough and dark the paths he trod, Lived--died--in form and soul a man, The image of his God. - [Burns, Robert] And there's one rare strange virtue in their speeches, The secret of their mastery--they are short. - [Brevity] And thou art terrible--the tear, The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier; And all we know, or dream, or fear Of agony, are thine. - [Death] Beauty,--the fading rainbow's pride. - [Beauty] I cannot spare the luxury of believing that all things beautiful are what they seem. - [Beauty] I sorrow that all fair things must decay. - [Decay] None knew thee but to love thee, nor named thee but to praise. - [Admiration] The spell is thins that reaches The heart, and makes the wisest head its sport; And there's one rare, strange virtue in thy speeches, The secret of their mastery--they are short. - [Eloquence] The wild-flower wreath of feeling, the sunbeam of the heart. - [Sensibility] What is man's love? His vows are broke even while his parting kiss is warm. - [Frailty] Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt, The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt, The Douglas in red herrings. - Alnwick Castle [Business] This bank-note world. - Alnwick Castle [Money] Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines, Shrines to no code or creed confined,-- The Delphian vales, the Palestines, The Meccas of the mind. - Burns (st. 32) [Graves] They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty. - Connecticut [Love of Country] Ere the dolphin dies Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath Are tropic winds before the voice of death. - Fortune [Death] But to the hero, when his sword Has won the battle for the free, Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word, And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. - Marco Bozzaris [Heroes] Come to the bridal-chamber, Death! Come to the mother's, when she feels, For the first time, her first-born's breath! Come when the blessed seals That close the pestilence are broke, And crowded cities wail its stroke! - Marco Bozzaris [Death] One of the few, the immortal names, That were not born to die. - Marco Bozzaris [Names] Strike--for your altars and your fires; Strike--for the green graves of your sires. God--and your native land! - Marco Bozzaris [Patriotism] Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word; And in its hollow tones are heard The thanks of millions yet to be. - Marco Bozzaris [Prophecy (Prophesy)] Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days; None knew thee but to love thee Nor named thee but to praise. - On the death of J.R. Drake [Graves] There is an evening twilight of the heart, When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest. - Twilight [Heart]
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