So bright the tear in Beauty's eye, Love half regrets to kiss it dry.
Happiness was born a twin.
Land of lost gods and godlike men.
There was a sound of revelry by night, And Belgium's capital had gathered then Her beauty and her chivalry, and bright The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men. A thousand hearts beat happily; and when Music arose with its voluptuous swell, Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage bell. But hush! hark! a deep sound strikes like a rising knell!
Nothing so fretful, so despicable as a Scribbler, see what I am, and what a parcel of Scoundrels I have brought about my ears, and what language I have been obliged to treat them with to deal with them in their own way; - all this comes of Authorship.
Man marks the earth with ruin - his control stops with the shore.
He scratched his ear, the infallible resource to which embarrassed people have recourse.
A material resurrection seems strange and even absurd except for purposes of punishment, and all punishment which is to revenge rather than correct must be morally wrong, and when the World is at an end, what moral or warning purpose can eternal tortures answer?
What exile from himself can flee? To zones, though more and more remote, Still, still pursues, where'er I be, The blight of life--the demon Thought.
What is Death, so it be but glorious? 'Tis a sunset; And mortals may be happy to resemble The Gods but in decay.
Pythagoras, Locke, Socrates - but pages might be filled up, as vainly as before, with the sad usage of all sorts of sages, who in his life-time, each was deemed a bore! The loftiest minds outrun their tardy ages.
[My advice] will one day be found With other relics of 'a former world,' When this world shall be former, underground, Thrown topsy-turvy, twisted, crisped, and curled, Baked, fried or burnt, turned inside-out, or drowned, Like all the worlds before, which have been hurled First out of, and then back again to Chaos, The Superstratum which will overlay us.
Despair and Genius are too oft connected
I have no consistency, except in politics; and that probably arises from my indifference to the subject altogether.
Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.
Constancy... that small change of love, which people exact so rigidly, receive in such counterfeit coin, and repay in baser metal.
That prose is a verse, and verse is a prose; convincing all, by demonstrating plain – poetic souls delight in prose insane
I am surrounded here by parsons and methodists, but as you will see, not infested with the mania.
Earth! render back from out thy breast A remnant of our Spartan dead! Of the three hundred grant but three, To make a new Thermopylæ!
Then farewell, Horace; whom I hated so, Not for thy faults, but mine.
Knowledge is not happiness, and science But an exchange of ignorance for that Which is another kind of ignorance.
Think'st thou there is no tyranny but that Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice-- The weakness and the wickedness of luxury-- The negligence--the apathy--the evils Of sensual sloth--produces ten thousand tyrants, Whose delegated cruelty surpasses The worst acts of one energetic master, However harsh and hard in his own bearing.
This sort of adoration of the real is but a heightening of the beau ideal.
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
Keep thy smooth words and juggling homilies for those who know thee not.
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