English Quotes — page 1620

Maiden, fling from thy braided hair The red rosebud that is wreathed there ; For he who planted the parent tree Is now what soon that blossom will be.

There grew her father's cypress tree, No other monument had he. He bade that never funeral stone Should tell of glory overthrown,— What could it say, but foreign sky Had seen the exile pine and die?

They see the mortal maiden ride In honour by the chieftan's side, So beautiful, so free from sin, Worthy was she such boon to win : The spirit race that floated round Were not more pure, more stainless found

Blush'd the first blush of coming day, Faded the fairy band away. They pass'd and only left behind A lingering fragrance on the wind, And on the lake, their haunted home, One long white wreath of silver foam.

A louder sweep the music gave : The chieftain of the charmed wave, Graceful upon his steed of snow, Rises from his blue halls below ; And rode he like a victor-knight Thrice glorious in his arms of light.

Such as the lute, touch'd by no hand Save by an angel's, wakes and weeps, Such is the sound that now to land From the charmed water sweeps.

For misery, like a masquer, mocks at all In which it has no part, or one of gall,

We do too little feel each others' pain; We do relax too much the social chain That binds us to each other; slight the care There is for grief in which we have no share.

I cannot choose but marvel at the way In which our lives pass on, from day to day Learning strange lessons in the human heart, And yet like shadows letting them depart.

For my spirit hath left her earthly home And found a nobler dwelling, Where the music of light is that of life, And the starry harps are swelling.

Where do purple bubbles swim, But upon the goblet's brim ? Drink not deep, howe'er it glow Sparkles never lie below.

My heart is like the failing hearth Now by my side, One by one its bursts of flame Have burnt and died.

I numbered years of pain and distress, And but fourteen days of happiness. Mortal, nor pleasure, nor wealth, nor power, Are more than the toys of a passing hour;

Ahmed comes back a conqueror, but what hath he found? The cry of the orphan is loud on his ear, And his eye hath beheld the young bride's bitter tear, And the friend of his youth is left dead on the plain, And the flower of his nobles …

I'm weary, I'm weary. Oh! pleasure is pain When its spell has been broken again and again. I am weary of smiles that are bought and are sold, I am weary of beauty whose fetters are gold, I am weary of wealth—what makes it of me But that …

Beautiful weakness! oh, if weak, That woman's heart should tinge her cheek! 'Tis sad to change it for the strength That heart and cheek must know at length.

What need hath she Of shrine to her divinity? Each fair face is her visible shrine; She hath been, she will be divine.

Dreary it is the path to trace, Step by step of sin's wild race.

The earth was parched, the trees were sear'd, And blasted every branch appear'd; At one end yawned a gloomy cave, Black, as its mouth were that of the grave; And dark, as if the waters of death Were in its depths, rose a well beneath.

Alas! when angry words begin Their entrance on the lip to win; When sullen eye and flushing cheek Say more than bitterest tone could speak; And look and word, than fire or steel, Give wounds more deep,—time cannot heal;

Oh! frail are the many links that are In the chain of affection's tender care,

Despair weeps not. Her lip moved as in prayer Unconsciously ; as if prayers had been there, And they moved now from custom.

There stood she, even as a statue stands, With head droop'd downward, and with clasped hands; Such small white hands that match'd her ivory feet, How may they bear that scorching fire to meet?

True love is timid, as it knew its worth, And that such happiness is scarce for earth.