Walter Scott

O! many a shaft at random sent Finds mark the archer little meant! And many a word, at random spoken, May soothe or wound a heart that's broken!

The wind breath'd soft as lover's sigh, And, oft renew'd, seem'd oft to die, With breathless pause between, O who, with speech of war and woes, Would wish to break the soft repose Of such enchanting scene!

Spangling the wave with lights as vain As pleasures in the vale of pain, That dazzle as they fade.

In man's most dark extremity Oft succour dawns from Heaven.

Hunger and fear are excellent casuists.

Bluid is thicker than water.

A lawyer without history or literature is a mechanic, a mere working mason; if he possesses some knowledge of these, he may venture to call himself an architect.

Wise men say that we resign to civil society our natural right of self-defence only on condition that the ordinances of law should protect us.

No pale gradations quench his ray, No twilight dews his wrath allay.

Thus aged men, full loth and slow, The vanities of life forego, And count their youthful follies o'er, Till Memory lends her light no more.

Oh, Brignal banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer's queen.

A mother's pride, a father's joy.

Still are the thoughts to memory dear.

Where, where was Roderick then! One blast upon his bugle-horn Were worth a thousand men.

Who o'er the herd would wish to reign, Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain! Vain as the leaf upon the stream, And fickle as a changeful dream; Fantastic as a woman's mood, And fierce as Frenzy's fever'd blood.

Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foeman worthy of their steel.

Come one, come all! this rock shall fly From its firm base as soon as I.

Art thou a friend to Roderick?

The rose is fairest when 't is budding new, And hope is brightest when it dawns from fears. The rose is sweetest wash'd with morning dew, And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.

Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou art gone, and forever!

Time rolls his ceaseless course.

Some feelings are to mortals given With less of earth in them than heaven; And if there be a human tear From passion's dross refined and clear, A tear so limpid and so meek It would not stain an angel's cheek,

Hail to the Chief who in triumph advances!

Soldier, rest! thy warfare o'er, Sleep the sleep that knows not breaking; Dream of battled fields no more, Days of danger, nights of waking.