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> C.N. Douglas, comp. >
Forty Thousand Quotations
Primary Author Index
C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical.
A crowd of shivering slaves of every nation,
And age, and sex, were in the market rangd;
Each bevy with the merchant in his station:
Poor creatures! their good looks were sadly changd;
All save the blacks seemd jaded with vexation,
From friends, and home, and freedom far estrangd.
The negroes more philosophy displayd,
Used to it, no doubt, as eels are to be flayd.
A light broke in upon my soul
It was the carol of a bird;
It ceasedand then it came again
The sweetest song ear ever heard.
A little stream came tumbling from the height,
And struggling into ocean as it might.
Its bounding crystal frolickd in the ray,
And gushd from cliff to crag with saltless spray.
A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
A man must serve his time to evry trade,
Save censure; critics all are ready made:
Take hackneyd jokes from Miller, got by rote,
With just enough of learning to misquote;
A mind well skilld to find or forge a fault,
A turn for punningcall it Attic salt
Fear not to lietwill seem a lucky hit;
Shrink not from blasphemytwill pass for wit;
Care not for feeling, pass your proper jest
And stand a critic, hated, yet caressd.
A mere soldier, a mere tool, a kind
Of human sword in a friends hand.
A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping,
Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye
Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping
In sight, then lost amidst the forestry
Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping
On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy,
A huge, dun cupola, like a foolscap crown
On a fools headand there is London Town.
A paler shadow strews
Its mantle oer the mountains; parting day
Dies like a dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new colour as it gasps away
The last still loveliest tilltis goneand all is grey.
A quiet conscience makes one so serene!
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
That all the apostles would have done as they did.
A real spirit
Should neither court neglect, nor dread to bear it.
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when
Music arose with its voluptuous swell,
Soft eyes lookd love to eyes which spake again,
And all went merry as a marriage bell.
A thousand years scarce serve to form a state;
An hour may lay it in the dust.
A tigress robbd of young, a lioness,
Or any interesting beast or prey,
Are similes at hand for the distress
Of ladies who cannot have their own way.
A would-be satirist, a hired buffoon,
A monthly scribbler of some low lampoon,
Condemnd to drudge, the meanest of the mean,
And furbish falsehoods for a magazine.
A young star, who shone
Oer life, too sweet an image for such gloss,
A lovely being scarcely formd or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
Above me are the Alps,
The palaces of Nature, whose vast walls
Have pinnacled in clouds their snowy scalps,
And thrond Eternity in icy halls
Of cold sublimity, where forms and falls
The avalanchethe thunderbolt of snow!
All that expands the spirit, yet appals,
Gather round these summits, as to show
How Earth may pierce to Heaven, yet leave vain man below.
Adieu, adieu! my native shore
Fades oer the waters blue.
Ah, nut-brown partridges! ah, brilliant pheasants!
And ah, ye poachers!tis no sport for peasants.
Ah, Vice! how soft are thy voluptuous ways!
While boyish blood is mantling, who can scape
The fascination of thy magic gaze?
Ah! were I severd from thy side,
Where were thy friend and who my guide?
Years have not seen, Time shall not see
The hour that tears my soul from thee.
Alas! our young affections run to waste,
Or water but the desert.
All human history attests
That happiness for manthe hungry sinner
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner!
All is gentle; nought
Stirs rudely; but congenial with the night,
Whatever walks is gliding like a spirit.
All that I know is, that the facts I state
Are true as truth has ever been of late.
All that the mind would shrink from, of excesses;
All that the body perpetrates, of bad;
All that we read, hear, dream, of mans distresses;
All that the devil would do, if run stark mad;
All that defies the worst which pen expresses
All by which hell is peopled, or is sad
As hellmere mortals who their power abuse
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.
All was preparedthe fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
Marchd forth with nerves and sinews bent to slay
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain,
Immediately in others grew again.
All who joy would win
Must share ithappiness was born a twin.
An infant when it gazes on the light,
A child the moment when it drains the breast,
A devotee when soars the Host in sight,
An Arab with a stranger for a guest,
A sailor when the prize has struck in fight,
A miser filling his most hoarded chest,
Feel rapture; but not such true joy are reaping
As they who watch oer what they love while sleeping.
Ancient of days! august Athena! where,
Where are thy men of might? thy grand in soul?
Goneglimmering though the dream of things that were;
First in the race that led to glorys goal,
They won, and passd awayIs this the whole?
And cast
Oer erring deeds and thoughts a heavnly hue
Of words, like sunbeams, dazzling as they passd.
And gazed around them to the left and right
With the prophetic eye of appetite.
And glory long has made the sages smile;
Tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind
Depending more upon the historians style
Than on the name a person leaves behind.
And her face so fair
Stirrd with her dream, as rose-leaves with the air.
And I have loved thee, Ocean! and my joy
Of youthful sports was on thy breast to be
Borne, like thy bubbles, onward; from a boy
I wantond with thy breakers.
And oer that fair broad brow were wrought
The intersected lines of thought;
Those furrows, which the burning share
Of sorrow ploughs untimely there:
Scars of the lacerating mind,
Which the souls war doth leave behind.
And one by one in turn, some grand mistake
Casts off its bright skin yearly like the snake.
And rash enthusiasm in good society
Were nothing but a moral inebriety.
And then he dancedall foreigners excel
The serious Angles in the eloquence
Of pantominehe danced, I say, right well
With emphasis, and also with good sense
A thing in footing indispensable:
He danced without theatrical pretence,
Not like a ballet-master in the van
Of his drilld nymphs, but like a gentleman.
And there was mounting in hot haste: the steed,
The mustering squadron, and the clattering car,
Went pouring forward with impetuous speed,
And swiftly forming in the ranks of war;
And the deep thunder peal on peal, afar
And near; the beat of the alarming drum
Roused up the soldier ere the morning star;
While throngd the citizens with terror dumb,
Or whispering with white lipsThe foe! they come! they come!
And these vicissitudes come best in youth;
For when they happen at a riper age,
People are apt to blame the Fates, forsooth.
And wonder Providence is not more sage.
Adversity is the first path to truth:
He who hath proved war, storm or womans rage,
Whether his winters be eighteen or eighty,
Has won the experience which is deemd so weighty.
And though, as you remember, in a fit
Of wrath and rhyme, when juvenile and curly,
I railed at Scots to show my wrath and wit,
Which must be owned was sensitive and surly,
Yet tis in vain such sallies to permit,
They cannot quench young feelings fresh and early:
I scotched, not killed the Scotchman in my blood,
And love the land of mountain and of flood.
And to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
And that was shining on him.
And whether coldness, pride, or virtue, dignify
A woman; so shes good, what does it signify?
And, after all, what is a lie? Tis but
The truth in masquerade.
Around her shone
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face;
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole;
And, oh! that eye was in itself a soul!
Around her shone
The nameless charms unmarkd by her alone.
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole,
And, oh! that eye was in itself a soul.
Around his form his loose long robe was thrown,
And wrapt a breast bestowed on heaven alone.
As soon
Seek roses in Decemberice in June,
Hope, constancy in wind, or corn in chaff;
Believe a woman or an epitaph,
Or any other thing thats false, before
You trust in critics.
As winds come lightly whispering from the west,
Kissing, not ruffling the blue deeps serene.
Ave Maria! blessed be the hour!
The time, the clime, the spot where I so oft
Have felt that moment in its fullest power
Sink oer the earth so beautiful and soft,
While swung the deep bell in the distant tower,
Or the faint dying day-hymn stole aloft,
And not a breath crept through the rosy air,
And yet the forest leaves seemd stirrd with prayer.
Soft hour! which makes the wish and melts the heart
Of those who sail the seas, on the first day;
When they from their sweet friends are torn apart;
Or fills with love the pilgrim on his way,
As the far bell of vesper makes him start,
Seeming to weep the dying days decay;
Is this a fancy which our reason scorns?
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns!
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life!
The evening beam that smiles the clouds away
And tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!
Before decays effacing fingers
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers.
But twas a public feast, and public day,
Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold,
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer,
And everybody out of their own sphere.
But all have prices,
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,
And roam along, the worlds tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless:
Minions of splendor shrinking from distress!
None that, with kindred consciousness endued,
If we were not, would seem to smile the less,
Of all that flatterd, followd, sought and sued;
This is to be alone; this, this is solitude!
But O ye lords of ladies intellectual,
Inform us truly, have they not henpecked you all?
But passion raves herself to rest, or flies;
And vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb
Had buried long his hopes, no more to rise:
Pleasures palld victim! life-abhorring gloom
Wrote on his faded brow curst Cains unresting doom.
But she was a soft landscape of mild earth,
Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet,
Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth.
But sighs subside, and tears (een widows) shrink,
Like Arno in the summer, to a shallow
So narrow as to shame their wintry brink,
Which threatens inundations deep and yellow!
Such diffrence do a few months make. Youd think
Grief a rich field that never would lie fallow;
No more it doth; its ploughs but change their boys,
Who furrow some new soil to sow for joys.
But these are foolish things to all the wise,
And I love wisdom more than she loves me;
My tendency is to philosophise
On most things, from a tyrant to a tree;
But still the spouseless virgin Knowledge flies,
What are we? and whence come we? what shall be
Our ultimate existence? Whats our present?
Are questions answerless, and yet incessant.
But words are things, and a small drop of ink,
Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think.
But, at sixteen, the conscience rarely gnaws
So much, as when we call our old debts in
At sixty years, and draw the accounts of evil,
And find a deuced balance with the devil.
By heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
(For one who hath no friend, no brother there)
Their rival scarfs of mixd embroidery,
Their various arms that glitter in the air!
What gallant war-hounds rouse them from their lair,
And gnash their fangs, loud yelling for the prey!
All join the chase, but few the triumph share;
The grave shall bear the chiefest prize away,
And havoc scarce for joy can number their array.
By those tresses unconfind,
Wood by every gentle wind;
By those lids whose jetty fringe
Kiss thy soft cheeks blooming tinge;
By those wild eyes, like the roe,
Ah! hear my vow before I go
My dearest life, I love thee!
Can I cease to love thee?no!
Zoe mous s-as agapo.
Chaste were his steps, each kept within due bound,
And elegance was sprinkled oer his figure;
Like swift Camilla, he scarce skimmd the ground,
And rather held in than put forth his vigor:
And then he had an ear for musics sound,
Which might defy a crotchet critics rigor.
Such classic
flawsset off our hero,
He glanced like a personified Bolero.
Christians have burnt each other, quite persuaded
That all the apostles would have done as they did.
Clime of the unforgotten brave!
Whose land, from plain to mountain-cave,
Was Freedoms home, or Glorys grave;
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Come, lay thy head upon my breast,
And I will kiss thee into rest.
Could we but keep our spirit to that height,
We might be happy; but the clay will sink
Its thoughts immortal.
Dark tree! still sad when others grief is fled,
The only constant mourner oer the dead.
Dear authors! suit your topics to your strength,
And ponder well your subject, and its length;
Nor lift your load, before youre quite aware
What weight your shoulders will, or will not, bear.
Death, so called, is a thing that makes men weep,
And yet a third of life is passd in sleep.
Deformity is daring;
It is its essence to oertake mankind
By heart and soul, and make itself the equal
Ay, the superior of the rest. There is
A spur in its halt movements, to become
All that the others cannot, in such things
As still are free for both, to compensate
For stepdame Natures avarice at first.
Do proper homage to thine idols eyes,
But not too humbly, or she will despise
Thee and thy suit though told in moving tropes;
Disguise even tenderness, if thou art wise.
Does not the law of Heaven say blood for blood?
And he who taints kills more than he who sheds it.
Down to the dust! and as thou rottst away,
Even worms shall perish on thy poisonous clay.
Dreading that climax of all human ills,
The inflammation of his weekly bills.
Dreams in their development have breath,
And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy,
They have a weight upon our waking thoughts,
They take a weight from off our waking toils,
They do divide our being.
Ecclesiastes said that all is vanity,
Most modern preachers say the same, or show it
By their examples of true Christianity.
In short, all know, or very soon may know it.
Eternal Spirit of the chainless mind!
Brightest in dungeons, Liberty! thou art,
For there thy habitation is the Heart
The Heart which love of thee alone can bind;
And when thy sons to fetters are consignd
To fetters and the damp vaults dayless gloom,
Their country conquers with their Martyrdom,
And Freedoms fame finds wings on every wind.
Even as a broken mirror, which the glass
In every fragment multiplies, and makes
A thousand images of one that was
The same, and still the more, the more it breaks.
Even to the delicacy of their hand
There was resemblance such as true blood wears.
Exhausting thought,
And hiving wisdom with each studious year.
Existence may be borne, and the deep root
Of life and sufferance make its firm abode
In bare and desolate bosoms: mute
The camel labors with the heaviest load,
And the wolf dies in silence: Not bestowd
In vain should such examples be; if they,
Things of ignoble or of savage mood,
Endure and shrink not, we of nobler clay
May temper it to bearit is but for a day.
Farewell, my Spain! a long farewell! he cried.
Perhaps I may revisit thee no more,
But die, as many an exiled heart hath died,
Of its own thirst to see again thy shore.
Fair Italy!
Thou art the garden of the world, the home
Of all Art yields, and Nature can decree,
Even in thy desert, what is like to thee?
Thy very weeds are beautiful, thy waste
More rich than other climes fertility;
Thy wreck a glory, and thy ruin graced
With an immaculate charm which cannot be defacd.
Famished people must be slowly nursed,
And fed by spoonfuls, else they always burst.
Far along,
From peak to peak the rattling crags among,
Leaps the live thunder.
Fare thee well! and if for ever,
Still for ever, fare thee well.
Farewell! a word that must be, and hath been
A sound which makes us linger;yetfarewell.
Farewell! if ever fondest prayer
For others weal availed on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air
But waft thy name beyond the sky.
For in that word,that fatal word,howeer
We promisehopebelieve,there breathes despair.
Father of Light! great God of Heaven!
Hearst thou the accents of despair?
Can guilt like mans be eer forgiven?
Can vice atone for crimes by prayer?
For Ennui is a growth of English root,
Though nameless in our language:we retort
The fact for words, and let the French translate
That awful Yawn which Sleep cannot abate.
For Freedoms battle once begun,
Bequeathd by bleeding sire to son,
Though baffled oft is ever won.
For I am a weed,
Flung from the rock, on Oceans foam, to sail,
Whereer the surge may sweep, the tempests breath prevail.
For through the south the custom still commands
The gentleman to kiss the ladys hands.
Foul Superstition! howsoeer disguised,
Idol, saint, virgin, prophet, crescent, cross,
For whatsoever symbol thou art prized,
Thou sacerdotal gain, but general loss!
Who from true worships gold can separate thy dross?
Golet thy less than womans hand
Assume the distaffnot the brand.
Hand to hand and foot to foot,
Nothing there save death, was mute;
Stroke and thrust, and flash, and cry
For quarter or for victory,
Mingle there with the volleying thunder.
Hark to the Boatswains call, the cheering cry!
While through the seamans hand the tackle glides;
Or schoolboy Midshipman that, standing by,
Strains his shrill pipe as good or ill betides,
And well the docile crew that skilful urchin guides.
Hark, hark! Deep sounds, and deeper still,
Are howling from the mountains bosom:
Theres not a breath of wind upon the hill,
Yet quivers every leaf, and drops each blossom:
Earth groans as if beneath a heavy load.
Hark! to the hurried question of Despair:
Where is my child?an Echo answersWhere?
Have not all past human beings parted,
And must not all the present, one day part?
He enterd in his househis home no more,
For without hearts there is no home;and felt
The solitude of passing his own door
Without a welcome.
He fell upon whatever was offerd, like
A priest, a shark, an alderman, or pike.
He had kept
The whiteness of his soul, and thus men oer him wept.
He had then the grace, too rare in every clime,
Of being, without alloy of fop or beau,
A finishd gentleman from top to toe.
He learnd the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery,
And how to scale a fortress ora nunnery.
He sighed;the next resource is the full moon,
Where all sighs are deposited; and now
It happend luckily, the chaste orb shone.
He smiles and sleeps!sleep on
And smile, thou little, young inheritor
Of a world scarce less young: sleep on and smile!
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering
And innocent!
He was the mildest mannerd man
That ever scuttled ship, or cut a throat!
With such true breeding of a gentleman,
You never could divine his real thought.
He who ascends to mountain-tops shall find
Their loftiest peaks most wrapt in clouds of snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Tho high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head.
He who first met the Highlands swelling blue,
Will love each peak that shows a kindred hue;
Hail in each crag a friends familiar face,
And clasp the mountain in his minds embrace.
He who hath bent him oer the dead,
Ere the first day of death is fled
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress,
(Before Decays effacing fingers,
Have swept the lines where beauty lingers)
And markd the mild angelic air,
The rapture of repose thats there.
He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Her eye (I am very fond of handsome eyes),
Was large and dark, suppressing half its fire
Until she spoke, then through its soft disguise
Flashd an expression more of pride than ire,
And love than either; and there would arise,
A something in them which was not desire,
But would have been, perhaps, but for the soul,
Which struggled through and chastend down the whole.
Her glossy hair was clustered oer a brow
Bright with intelligence, and fair and smooth;
Her eyebrows shape was like the aërial bow,
Her cheek all purple with the beam of youth,
Mounting, at times, to a transparent glow,
As if her veins ran lightning.
Her overpowering presence made you feel
It would not be idolatry to kneel.
Her years
Were ripe, they might make six-and-twenty springs;
But there are forms which Time to touch forbears,
And turns aside his scythe to vulgar things.
Here and there some stern high patriot stood,
Who could not get the place for which he sued.
Heres a sigh to those who love me,
And a smile to those who hate;
And whatever skys above me,
Heres a heart for every fate.
His breast with wounds unnumberd riven,
His back to earth, his face to heaven.
His speech was a fine sample, on the whole,
Of rhetoric, which the learnd call rigmarole.
Hope, withering, fledand Mercy sighed farewell.
How beautiful is all this visible world!
How glorious in its action and itself!
But we, who name ourselves its sovereigns, we,
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit
To sink or soar, with our mixd essence make
A conflict of its elements, and breathe
The breath of degradation and of pride,
Contending with low wants and lofty will,
Till our mortality predominates,
And men arewhat they name not to themselves,
And trust not to each other.
How lovely he appears! his little cheeks
In their pure incarnation, vying with
The rose leaves strewn beneath them.
And his lips, too,
How beautifully parted! No; you shall not
Kiss him; at least not now; he will wake soon
His hour of midday rest is nearly over.
How many a time have I
Cloven with arm still lustier, breast more daring
The wave all roughend; with a swimmers stroke
Flung the billows back from my drenchd hair,
And laughing from my lip the audacious brine
Which kissd it like a wine-cup rising oer
The waves as they rose, and prouder still
The loftier they uplifted me.
I am not now
That which I have been.
I am the very slave of circumstance
And impulseborne away with every breath.
I depart,
Whither I know not; but the hours gone by
When Albions lessening shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
I die,but first I have possessd,
And come what may, I
have been
I hate inconstancyI loathe, detest,
Abhor, condemn, abjure the mortal made
Of such quicksilver clay that in his breast
No permanent foundation can be laid.
I have a passion for the name of Mary,
For once it was a magic sound to me,
And still it half calls up the realms of fairy,
Where I beheld what never was to be.
I know that there are angry spirits
And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason,
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out
Muffled to whisper curses to the night;
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians,
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns.
I live not in myself, but I become
Portion of that around me, and to me
High mountains are a feeling, but the hum
Of human cities torture.
I live,
But live to die: and living, see no thing
To make death hateful, save an innate clinging,
A loathsome and yet all invincible
Instinct of life, which I abhor, as I
Despise myself, yet cannot overcome
And so I live.
I love the sex, and sometimes would reverse
The tyrants wish, that mankind only had
One neck, which he with one fell stroke might pierce;
My wish is quite as wide, but not so bad,
And much more tender on the whole than fierce;
It being (not now, but only while a lad)
That womankind had but one rosy mouth,
To kiss them all at once, from North to South.
I loved her from my boyhood; she to me
Was as a fairy city of the heart,
Rising like water-columns from the sea,
Of joy the sojourn, and of wealth the mart;
And Otway, Radcliffe, Schiller, Shakespeares art,
Had stampd her image in me.
I own my natural weakness; I have not
Yet learnd to think of indiscriminate murder
Without some sense of shuddering; and the sight
Of blood, which spouts through hoary scalps, is not,
To me, a thing or triumph, nor the death
Of men surprised, a glory.
I say the sun is a most glorious sight,
Ive seen him rise full oft, indeed of late
I have sat up on purpose all the night,
Which hastens, as physicians say, ones fate;
And so all ye, who would be in the right
In health and purse, begin your day to date
From daybreak, and when coffind at fourscore,
Engrave upon the plate, you rose at four.
I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs,
A palace and a prison on each hand;
I saw from out the wave her structure rise,
As from the stroke of the enchanters wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying Glory smiles
Oer the far times, when many a subject land
Lookd to the winged Lions marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles.
I want a hero: an uncommon want,
When every year and month sends forth a new one.
I wishd but for a single tear,
As something welcome, new and dear,
I wishd it then, I wish it still,
Despair is stronger than my will.
Ive seen your stormy seas and stormy women,
And pity lovers rather more than seamen.
If we do but watch the hour,
There never yet was human power
Which could evade, if unforgiven,
The patient search and vigil long
Of him who treasures up a wrong.
In fact, theres nothing makes me so much grieve,
As that abominable tittle-tattle,
Which is the cud eschewd by human cattle.
In reading authors, when you find
Bright passages, that strike your mind,
And which, perhaps, you may have reason
To think on, at another season,
Be not contented with the sight,
But take them down in black and white;
Such a respect is wisely shown,
As makes anothers sense ones own.
In that instant, oer his soul
Winters of Memory seemd to roll,
And gather in that drop of time
A life of pain, an age of crime.
Oer him who loves, or hates, or fears,
Such moment pours the grief of years.
In the desert a fountain is springing,
In the wide waste there still is a tree,
And a bird in the solitude singing,
Which speaks to my spirit of thee.
In Venice, Tassos echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear.
In virtues nothing earthly could surpass her,
Save thine incomparable oil, Macassar!
It has a strange, quick jar upon the ear,
That cocking of a pistol, when you know
A moment more will bring the sight to bear
Upon your person, twelve yards off or so.
It is the hour when from the boughs
The nightingales high note is heard;
It is the hour when lovers vows
Seem sweet in every whispered word;
And gentle winds, and waters near,
Make music to the lonely ear.
Each flower the dews have lightly wet,
And in the sky the stars are met,
And on the wave is deeper blue,
And on the leaf a browner hue,
And in the heaven that clear obscure,
So softly dark, and darkly pure.
Which follows the decline of day,
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
It was the cooling hour, just when the rounded
Red sun sinks down behind the azure hill,
Which then seems as if the whole earth is bounded,
Circling all nature, hushd, and dim, and still,
With the far mountain-crescent half surrounded
On one side, and the deep sea calm and chill
Upon the other, and the rosy sky
With one star sparkling through it like an eye.
Italia! O Italia! thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty, which became
A funeral dower of present woes and past,
On thy sweet brow is sorrow ploughd by shame,
And annals graved in characters of flame.
Jack was embarrassednever hero more,
And as he knew not what to say, he swore.
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel,
He nursed the pinion, which impelld the steel.
Kill a mans family, and he may brook it,
But keep your hands out of his breeches pocket.
Lets not unman each otherpart at once;
All farewells should be sudden, when forever,
Else they make an eternity of moments,
And clog the last sad sands of life with tears.
Like a lovely tree
She grew to womanhood, and between whiles
Rejected several suitors, just to learn
How to accept a better in his turn.
Like the leaves of the forest when summer is green,
That host with their banners at sunset were seen;
Like the leaves of the forest when autumn hath blown,
That host on the morrow lay witherd and strown!
Look how he laughs and stretches out his arms,
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine,
To hail his father: while his little form
Flutters as wingd with joy. Talk not of pain!
The childless cherubs well might envy thee
The pleasures of a parent.
Look on its broken arch, its ruined wall,
Its chambers desolate, its portals foul;
Yes, this was once ambitions airy hall,
The dome of thought, the palace of the soul.
Look on me in my sleep,
Or watch my watchingscome and sit by me!
My solitude is solitude no more,
But peopled with the furies;I have gnashd
My teeth in darkness till returning morn,
Then cursed myself till sunset;I have prayd
For madness as a blessingtis denied me.
Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!
Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
Man is a carnivorous production,
And must have meals, at least one meal a day;
He cannot live, like woodcocks, upon suction,
But, like the shark and tiger, must have prey;
Although his anatomical construction
Bears vegetables, in a grumbling way,
Your laboring people think beyond all question,
Beef, veal, and mutton better for digestion.
Mans love is of mans life a thing apart,
Tis womans whole existence; man may range
The court, the camp, church, vessel, and the mart,
Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange;
Pride, fame, ambition, to fill up his heart;
And few there are whom these cannot estrange;
Men have all these resources, we but one
To love again, and be again undone.
Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine
A sad, sour, sober beverageby time
Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor
Down to a very homely household savor.
May no marble bestow the splendor of woe,
Which the children of vanity rear;
No fiction of fame shall blazon my name,
All I askall I wishis a tear.
May the grass wither from thy feet; the woods
Deny thee shelter! earth a home! the dust
A grave! the sun his light! and heaven her God!
Men are the sport of circumstance, when
The circumstances seem the sport of men.
Mighty Nature bounds as from her birth,
The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth;
Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam,
Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.
Mont Blanc is the monarch of mountains;
They crownd him long ago
On a throne of rocks, in a robe of clouds,
With a diadem of snow.
Must I consume my lifethis little life,
In guarding against all may make it less?
It is not worth so much!it were to die
Before my hour, to live in dread of death.
My boat is on the shore,
And my bark is on the sea:
But, before I go, Tom Moore,
Heres a double health to thee!
My days are in the yellow leaf;
The flowers and fruits of love are gone;
The worm, the canker, and the grief
Are mine alone!
My pen is at the bottom of a page,
Which being finished, here the story ends;
Tis to be wishd it had been sooner done,
But stories somehow lengthen when begun.
My sole resources in the path I trod,
Were thesemy barkmy swordmy lovemy God.
The last I left in youthHe leaves me now
And man but works His will to lay me low.
I have no thought to mock His throne with prayer,
Wrung from the coward crouching of despair;
It is enoughI breatheand I can bear.
My spirit shrunk not to sustain
The searching throes of ceaseless pain;
Nor sought the self-accorded grave
Of ancient fool and modern knave.
My very chains and I grew friends,
So much a long communion tends
To make us what we are; even I
Regaind my freedom with a sigh.
No words suffice the secret soul to show,
And truth denies all eloquence to woe.
None are so desolate but something dear,
Dearer than self, possesses or possessd
A thought, and claims the homage of a tear.
Nor all that heralds rake from coffind clay,
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
Nor ear can hear nor tongue can tell
The tortures of that inward hell!
Nor florid prose, nor honied lies of rhyme,
Can blazon evil deeds, or consecrate a crime.
Not all the blood at Talavera shed,
Not all the marvels of Barossas fight,
Not Albuera lavish of the dead,
Have won for Spain her well-asserted right.
When shall her olive-branch be free from blight?
When shall she breathe her from the blushing toil?
How many a doubtful day shall sink in night,
Ere the Frank robber turn him from his spoil,
And Freedoms stranger-tree grow native of the soil!
Not much he kens, I ween, of womans breast,
Who thinks that wanton thing is won by sighs.
Now Laura moves along the joyous crowd,
Smiles in her eyes, and simpers in her lips;
To some she whispers, others speaks aloud;
To some she curtsies, and to some she dips.
O thou beautiful
And unimaginable ether! and
Ye multiplying masses of increased
And still increasing lights! what are ye? what
Is this blue wilderness of interminable
Air, where ye roll along, as I have seen
The leaves along the limpid streams of Eden?
Is your course measurd for ye? Or do ye
Sweep on in your unbounded revelry
Through an aërial universe of endless
Expansion,at which my soul aches to think,
Intoxicated with eternity?
O Time! the beautifier of the dead,
Adorner of the ruin, comforter
And only healer when the heart hath bled
Time! the corrector where our judgments err,
The test of truth, love,sole philosopher!
O Time! Why dost not pause? Thy scythe so dirty
With rust, should surely cease to hack and hew.
Reset it; shave more smoothly, also slower,
If but to keep thy credit as a mower.
O ye! who teach the ingenious youth of nations,
Holland, France, England, Germany or Spain,
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions,
It mends their morals, never mind the pain.
Oer the glad waters of the dark blue sea,
Our thoughts as boundless, and our souls as free,
Far as the breeze can bear, the billows foam,
Survey our empire, and behold our home!
Of all appeals,although
I grant the power of pathos, and of gold,
Of beauty, flattery, threats, a shilling,no
Methods more sure at moments to take hold,
Of the best feelings of mankind, which grow
More tender, as we every day behold,
Than that all-softening, overpowring knell,
The tocsin of the soulthe Dinner Bell.
Of all tales tis the saddestand more sad,
Because it makes us smile.
Of all the horrid, hideous notes of woe,
Sadder than owl-songs or the midnight blast;
Is that portentous phrase, I told you so.
Of all
The fools who flockd to swell or see the show,
Who card about the corpse? The funeral
Made the attraction, and the black the woe;
There throbbd not there a thought which piercd the pall.
Oh ye, who teach th ingenuous youth of nations
Holland, France, England, Germany, or Spain
I pray ye flog them upon all occasions;
It mends their morals; never mind the pain.
Oh, Christ! it is a goodly sight to see
What Heaven hath done for this delicious land!
Oh, God! it is a fearful thing
To see the human soul take wing
In any shape, in any mood!
Oh, who can tell, save he whose heart hath tried?
Oh! in that future let us think
To hold each heart the heart that shares;
With them the immortal waters drink,
And, soul in soul, grow deathless theirs!
Oh! natures noblest giftmy grey goose quill:
Slave of my thoughts, obedient to my will,
Torn from thy parent bird to form a pen,
That mighty instrument of little men!
Oh! too convincingdangerously dear
In womans eye the unanswerable tear!
That weapon of her weakness she can wield,
To save, subdueat once her spear and shield.
On with the dance! let joy be unconfined!
No sleep till morn, when youth and pleasure meet,
To chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
Once more upon the waters! yet once more!
And the waves bound beneath me as a steed
That knows his rider.
One struggle more, and I am free
From pangs that rend my heart in twain;
One last long sigh to love and thee,
Then back to busy life again.
Ours are the tears, though few, sincerely shed,
While ocean shrouds and sepulchres our dead.
Out upon Time! it will leave no more
Of the things to come than the things before!
Out upon Time! who forever will leave
But enough of the past for the future to grieve.
Parting day
Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues
With a new color at it gasps away,
The last still loveliest, tilltis goneand all is gray.
Perhaps he hath great projects in his mind,
To build a college, or to found a race,
An hospital, a churchand leave behind
Some dome surmounted by his meagre face,
Perhaps he fain would liberate mankind
Even with the very ore which makes them base;
Perhaps he would be wealthiest of his nation,
Or revel in the joys of calculation.
Perhaps the early grave
Which men weep over may be meant to save.
Petticoat influence is a great reproach,
Which een those who obey would fain be thought
To fly from, as from hungry pikes a roach;
But since beneath it upon earth were brought
By various joltings of lifes hackney coach,
I for one venerate a petticoat
A garment of mystical sublimity,
No matter whether russet, silk, or dimity.
Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Oceanroll!
Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain;
Man marks the earth with ruinhis control
Stops with the shore.
Romances paint at full length peoples wooings,
But only give a bust of marriages:
For no one cares for matrimonial cooings,
Theres nothing wrong in a connubial kiss.
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarchs wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life?
Self-defence is a virtue,
Sole bulwark of all right.
Shaggy shade
Of desert-loving pine, whose emerald scalp
Nods to the storm.
She bears her down majestically near,
Speed on her prow, and terror in her tier.
She had resolved that be should travel through
All European climes, by land or sea,
To mend his former morals, and get new,
Especially in France and Italy,
(At least this is the thing most people do).
She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all thats best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes;
Thus mellowd to that tender light
Which Heaven to gaudy day denies.
She walks the waters like a thing of life,
And seems to dare the elements to strife.
She was a good deal shockd; not shockd at tears.
For women shed and use them at their liking;
But there is something when mans eye appears
Wet, still more disagreeable and striking.
She was a soft landscape of mild earth,
Where all was harmony, and calm, and quiet,
Luxuriant, budding; cheerful without mirth,
Which, if not happiness, is much more nigh it
Than are your mighty passions.
She was his life,
The ocean to the river of his thoughts,
Which terminated all.
Ships, wealth, general confidence
All were his;
He counted them at break of day,
And when the sun set! where were they?
Shrine of the mighty! can it be,
That this is all remains of thee?
Skilled by a touch to deepen scandals tints,
With all the kind mendacity of hints,
While mingling truth with falsehood, sneers with smiles,
A thread of candor with a web of wiles;
A plain blunt show of briefly-spoken seeming,
To hide her bloodless hearts soul-hardend scheming;
A lap of lies, a face formed to conceal;
And, without feeling, mock at all who feel:
With a vile mask the Gorgon would disown,
A cheek of parchment, and an eye of stone.
So bright the tear in Beautys eye,
Love half regrets to kiss it dry;
So sweet the blush of Bashfulness,
Even Pity scarce can wish it less!
So do the dark in soul expire,
Or live like scorpion girt by fire;
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven,
Unfit for earth, undoomd for heaven,
Darkness above, despair beneath,
Around it flame, within it death.
So for a good old-gentlemanly vice,
I think I must take up with avarice.
So let him stand, through ages yet unborn,
Fixd statue on the pedestal of scorn!
So sweet the blush of bashfulness
Even pity scarce can wish it less.
So the struck eagle stretchd upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewd his own feather on the fatal dart,
And wingd the shaft that quivered in his heart:
Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel
He nursd the pinion which impelled the steel.
Society is now one polished horde,
Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.
Society itself, which should create
Kindness, destroys what little we had got:
To feel for none is the true social art
Of the worlds stoicsmen without a heart.
Sofas twas half a sin to sit upon,
So costly were they; carpets, every stitch
Of workmanship so rare, they make you wish
You could glide oer them like a golden fish.
Some hoisted out the boats, and there was one
That begged Pedrillo for an absolution,
Who told him to be damnd,in his confusion.
Some waltz; some draw; some fathom the abyss
Of metaphysics; others are content
With music; the most moderate shine as wits,
While others have a genius turnd for fits.
Sooner shall this blue ocean melt to air,
Sooner shall earth resolve itself to sea,
Than I resign thine image, Oh my fair!
Or think of anything, excepting thee.
Sorrow preys upon
Its solitude and nothing more diverts it
From its sad visions of the other world
Than calling it at moments back to this.
The busy have no time for tears.
Strange state of being! (for tis still to be)
Senseless to feel, and with seald eyes to see.
Such is your cold coquette, who cant say No,
And wont say Yes, and keeps you on and off-ing
On a lee-shore, till it begins to blow,
Then sees your heart wreckd, with an inward scoffing.
Take time enoughall other graces
Will soon fill up their proper places.
That all-softening, overpowering knell,
The tocsin of the soulthe dinner bell.
That anxious torture may I never feel,
Which doubtful, watches oer a wandering heart.
O, who that bitter torment can reveal,
Or tell the pining anguish of that smart!
That awful pause, dividing life from death
Struck for an instant on the hearts of men,
Thousands of whom were drawing their last breath!
A moment all will be life again.
* * * * one moment more,
The death-cry drowning in the battles roar.
That music in itself, whose sounds are song,
The poetry of speech.
The Assyrian came down like the wolf on the fold,
And his cohorts were gleaming in purple and gold.
The best of remedies is a beefsteak
Against sea-sickness; try it, sir, before
You sneer, and I assure you this is true,
For I have found it answerso may you.
The circle smild, then whisperd, and then sneerd;
The misses bridled, and the matrons frownd;
Some hoped things might not turn out as they feard;
Some would not deem such women could be found;
Some neer believd one half of what they heard;
Some lookd perplexd, and others lookd profound;
And several pitied, with sincere regret,
Poor Lord Augustus Fitz-Plantagenet.
The death-shot hissing from afar
The shockthe shoutthe groan of war
Reverberate along that vale,
More suited to the shepherds tale:
Though few the numberstheirs the strife,
That neither spares, nor speaks for life.
The devil hath not, in all his quivers choice,
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.
The earth has nothing like a she epistle,
And hardly heavenbecause it never ends.
I love the mystery of a female missal,
Which, like a creed, neer says all it intends.
* * * * * You had better
Take care what you reply to such a letter.
The fall of waters! rapid as the light,
The flashing mass foams shaking the abyss;
The hell of waters! where they howl and hiss,
And boil in endless torture; while the sweat
Of their great agony, wrung out from this
Their Phlegethon, curls round the rocks of jet
That gird the gulf around, in pitiless horror set,
And mounts in spray the skies, the thence again
Returns in an unceasing shower, which round,
With its unemptied clouds of gentle rain,
Is an eternal April to the ground,
Making it all one emerald:how profound
The gulf! and how the giant element
From rock to rock leaps with delirious bound,
Crushing the cliffs, which, downward worn and rent
With his fierce footsteps, yield in chasms a fearful vent
To the broad column which rolls on.
The first dark day of nothingness,
The last of danger and distress.
The heart is like the sky, a part of heaven,
But changes, night and day, too, like the sky;
Now oer it clouds and thunder must be driven,
And darkness and destruction as on high;
But when it hath been scorchd and piercd and riven,
Its storms expire in water-drops; the eye
Pours forth, at last, the hearts blood turnd to tears.
The heart ran oer
With silent worship of the great of old!
The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule
Our spirits from their urns.
The hearts within thy valleys bred,
The fiery souls that might have led
Thy sons to deeds sublime,
Now crawl from cradle to the grave,
Slavesnay, the bondsmen of a slave,
And callous, save to crime.
The image of Eternitythe throne
Of the Invisible; even from out thy slime
The monsters of the deep are made; each zone
Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone.
The incessant fever of that arid thirst
Which welcomes as a well the clouds that burst
Above their naked heads, and feels delight
In the cold drenchings of the stormy night.
The isles of Greece, the isles of Greece!
Where burning Sappho loved and sung,
Where grew the arts of war and peace
Where Delos rose, and Phbus sprung!
Eternal summer gilds them yet,
But all, except their sun, is set.
The light of love, the purity of grace,
The mind, the music breathing from her face,
The heart whose softness harmonized the whole
And, oh! that eye was in itself a soul!
The morn is up again, the dewy morn,
With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom,
Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn,
And living as if earth containd no tomb,
And glowing into day.
The mountains look on Marathon,
And Marathon looks on the sea;
And musing there an hour alone
I dreamd that Greece might still be free.
For standing on the Persians grave
I could not deem myself a slave.
The music, and the banquet, and the wine
The garlands, the rose odors, and the flowers,
The sparkling eyes, and flashing ornaments
The white arms and the raven hairthe braids,
And bracelets; swan-like bosoms, and the necklace,
An India in itself, yet dazzling not.
The panting thirst, which scorches in the breath
Of those that die the soldiers fiery death,
In vain impels the burning mouth to crave
One dropone lastto cool it for the grave.
The quiet night, now dappling, gan to wane,
Dividing darkness from the dawning main.
The seventh day this; the jubilee of man:
London! right well thou knowst the day of prayer:
Then thy spruce citizen, washd artisan,
And smug apprentice gulp their weekly air:
The coach of hackney, whiskey, one-horse chair,
And humblest gig, through sundry suburbs whirl;
To Hampstead, Brentford, Harrow, make repair;
Till the tired jade the wheel forgets to hurl,
Provoking envious gibe from each pedestrian churl.
The silver light, which, hallowing tree and tower,
Sheds beauty and deep softness oer the whole,
Breathes also to the heart, and oer it throws
A loving languor which is not repose.
The sky is changed!and such a change! O night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder!
The sky
Is overcast, and musters muttering thunder,
In clouds that seem approaching fast, and show
In forked flashes a commanding tempest.
The sky
Spreads like an ocean hung on high,
Bespangled with those isles of light
So wildly, spiritually bright.
Whoever gazd upon them shining,
And turnd to earth without repining,
Nor wishd for wings to flee away,
And mix with their eternal ray?
The stars are forth, the moon above the tops
Of the snow-shining mountainsBeautiful!
I linger yet with nature, for the night
Hath been to me a more familiar face
Than that of man; and in her starry shade
Of dim and solitary loveliness,
I learnd the language of another world.
The tenors voice is spoilt by affectation,
And for the bass, the beast can only bellow;
In fact, he had no singing education,
An ignorant, noteless, timeless, tuneless fellow;
But being the prima donnas near relation,
Who swore his voice was very rich and mellow,
They hired him, though to hear him youd believe
An ass was practicing recitative.
The thorns which I have reapd are of the tree
I planted,they have torn me, and I bleed:
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
The truly brave,
When they behold the brave oppressed with odds,
Are touched with a desire to shield and save
A mixture of wild beasts and demi-gods
Are theynow furious as the sweeping wave,
Now moved with pity; even as sometimes nods
The rugged tree unto the summer wind,
Compassion breathes along the savage mind.
The very first
Of human life must spring from womans breast:
Your first small words are taught you from her lips;
Your first tears quenchd by her, and your last sighs
Too often breathd out in a womans hearing,
When men have shrunk from the ignoble care
Of watching the last hour of him who led them.
The wish, which ages have not yet subdued
In man, to have no master save his mood.
The witherd frame, the ruind mind,
The wreck by passion left behind,
A shrivelld scroll, a scatterd leaf,
Seard by the autumn blast of grief!
Their poet, a sad trimmer, but no less
In company a very pleasant fellow,
Had been the favorite of full many a mess
Of men, and made them speeches when half mellow;
And though his meaning they could rarely guess,
Yet still they deignd to hiccup or to bellow
The glorious meed of popular applause,
Of which the first neer knows the second cause.
Then fare thee well, deceitful maid,
Twere vain and fruitless to regret thee;
Nor hope nor memory yield their aid,
But time may teach me to forget thee.
Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell
Then shriekd the timid, and stood still the brave,
Then some leapd overboard with dreadful yell,
As eager to anticipate their grave;
And the sea yawnd around her like a hell,
And down she suckd with her the whirling wave,
Like one who grapples with his enemy,
And strives to strangle him before he die.
There are things
Which make revenge a virtue by reflection,
And not an impulse of mere anger; though
The laws sleep, justice wakes, and injurd souls
Oft do a public right with private wrong.
there is a fire and motion of the soul,
But once kindled, quenchless evermore.
There is a pleasure in the pathless woods,
There is a rapture on the lonely shore,
There is society where none intrudes
By the deep Sea, and music in its roar.
There is a tear for all that die,
A mourner oer the humblest grave;
But nations swell the funeral cry,
And Triumph weeps above the brave.
There is a temple in ruin stands,
Fashiond by long forgotten hands:
Two or three columns, and many a stone,
Marble and granite, with grass oergrown!
There is given
Unto the things of earth, which Time hath bent,
A spirits feeling, and where he hath leant
His hand, but broke his scythe, there is a power
And magic in the ruined battlement;
For which the palace of the present hour
Must yield its pomp, and wait till ages are its dower.
There is nothing gives a man such spirits,
Leavening his blood as cayenne doth a curry,
As going at full speedno matter where its
Direction be, so tis but in a hurry,
And merely for the sake of its own merits;
For the less cause there is for all this flurry,
The greater is the pleasure in arriving
At the great end of travelwhich is driving.
There shrinks no ebb in that tideless sea,
Which changeless rolls eternally;
So that wildest of waves, in their angriest mood,
Scarce break on the bounds of the land for a rood;
And the powerless moon beholds them flow,
Heedless if she come or go.
There was a general whisper, toss, and wiggle,
But etiquette forbade them all to giggle.
There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
That raisd emotions both of rage and fear;
And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
Hope withering fled, and mercy sighd farewell.
There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgiums capital had gatherd then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone oer fair women and brave men.
Theres nothing in the world like etiquette
In kingly chambers, or imperial halls,
As also at the race and county balls.
Theres nought in this bad world like sympathy:
Tis so becoming to the soul and face
Sets to soft music the harmonious sigh,
And robes sweet friendship in a Brussels lace.
They did not know how hate can burn
In hearts once changed from soft to stern;
Nor all the false and fatal zeal
The convert of revenge can feel.
They never fail who die,
In a great cause: the block may soak their gore,
Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs
Be strung to city gates and castle walls;
But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years
Elapse, and others share as dark a doom,
They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts
Which overpower all others, and conduct
The world at last to freedom.
Thine are the hours and days when both are cheering
And innocent.
Think you, if Laura had been Petrarchs wife,
He would have written sonnets all his life.
Thinkst thou existence doth depend on time?
It doth; but actions are our epochs; mine
Have made my days and nights imperishable,
Endless, and all alike.
Thinkst thou that I could bear to part
With thee, and learn to halve my heart?
* * * * *
Years have not seen, time shall not see
The hour that tears my soul from thee.
Thinkst thou there is no tyranny but that
Of blood and chains? The despotism of vice
The weakness and the wickedness of luxury
The negligencethe apathythe evils
Of sensual slothproduce ten thousand tyrants,
Whose delegated cruelty surpasses
The worst acts of one energetic master,
However harsh and hard in his own bearing.
Tho modest, on his unembarrassd brow
Nature had writtenGentleman.
Thou material God!
And representative of the Unknown,
Who chose thee for His shadow! Thou chief star!
Centre of many stars!which makst our earth
Endurable, and temperest the hues
And hearts of all who walk within thy rays!
Sire of the seasons! Monarch of the climes,
And those who dwell in them! for near or far,
Our inborn spirits have a tint of thee,
Even as our outward aspects,thou dost rise,
And shine and set in glory!
Thou needst not answer; thy confession speaks,
Already reddning in thy guilty cheeks.
Thou shalt not write, in short, but what I choose.
This is true criticism, and you may kiss,
Exactly as you please, or not, the rod.
Thou who hast
The fatal gift of beauty.
Though sages may pour out their wisdoms treasure,
There is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
Though sluggards deem it but a foolish chase,
And marvel men should quit their easy chair,
The toilsome way, and long, long league to trace;
Oh! there is sweetness in the mountain air,
And life, that bloated ease can never hope to snare.
Though thy slumber may be deep,
Yet thy spirit will not sleep;
There are shades that will not vanish,
There are thoughts thou canst not banish.
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic,
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic;
Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills!
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick,
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills,
Past, present, and to come; but all may yield
To the true portrait of one battle-field.
Thus, as the stream and ocean greet,
With waves that madden as they meet
Thus join the bands whom mutual wrong,
And fate and fury drive along.
Thy day without a cloud hath passd,
And thou wert lovely to the last;
Extinguishd not decayd!
As stars that shoot along the sky
Shine brightest as they fall from high.
Thy fanes, thy temple, to the surface bow,
Commingling slowly with heroic earth,
Broke by the share of every rustic plough:
So perish monuments of mortal Birth,
To perish all in turn, save well-recorded Worth.
Till taught by pain,
Men really know not what good waters worth:
If you had been in Turkey or in Spain,
Or with a famishd boats crew had your berth,
Or in the desert heard the camels bell,
Youd wish yourself where truth isin a well.
Time writes no wrinkle on thine azure brow,
Such as creations dawn beheld, thou rollest now.
Tis an old lesson; time approves it true,
And those who know it best, deplore it most;
When all is won that all desire to woo,
The paltry prize, is hardly worth the cost.
Tis enough
Who listens once will listen twice;
Her heart be sure is not of ice,
And one refusal no rebuff.
Tis pity wine should be so deleterious,
For tea and coffee leave us much more serious.
Tis pleasant purchasing our fellow-creatures;
And all are to be sold, if you consider
Their passions, and are dextrous; some by features
Are bought up, others by a warlike leader;
Some by a placeas tend their years of natures;
The most by ready cashbut all have prices,
From crowns to kicks, according to their vices.
Tis pleasant, sure, to see ones name in print;
A books a book, although theres nothing in t.
Tis pleasing to be schoold in a strange tongue
By female lips and eyesthat is, I mean,
When both the teacher and the taught are young,
As was the case, at least, where I have been;
They smile so when ones right; and when ones wrong
They smile still more.
Tis said the lion will turn and flee
From a maid in the pride of her purity.
Tis sweet to hear the watch-dogs honest bark
Bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home;
Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come.
Tis sweet to hear
At midnight, on the blue and moonlight deep,
The song and oar of Adrias gondolier,
By distance mellowd, oer the waters sweep;
Tis sweet to see the evening star appear;
Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep
From leaf to leaf; tis sweet to view on high
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.
Sweet is the vintage, when the showering grapes
In Bacchanal profusion reel to earth,
Purple and gushing; sweet are our escapes
From civic revelry to rural mirth;
Sweet to the miser are his glittering heaps;
Sweet to the father is his first borns birth;
Sweet is revengeespecially to women,
Pillage to soldiers, prize-money to seamen.
Tis sweet to hear the watch-dogs honest bark
Bay deep-mouthd welcome as we draw near home:
Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark
Our coming, and look brighter when we come:
Tis sweet to be awakend by the lark,
Or lulld by falling waters; sweet the hum
Of bees, the voice of girls, the song of birds,
The lisp of children and their earliest words.
Tis sweet to listen as the night winds creep
From leaf to leaf; tis sweet to view on high
The rainbow, based on ocean, span the sky.
To aid thy minds development to watch
Thy dawn of little joys, to sit and see
Almost thy very growth, to view thee catch
Knowledge of objectswonders yet to thee!
To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee,
And print on thy soft cheek a parents kiss.
To no men are such cordial greetings given
As those whose wives have made them fit for heaven.
To the mind,
Which is itself, no changes bring surprise.
To what gulfs
A single deviation from the track
Of human duties leads!
Twas a public feast and public day
Quite full, right dull, guests hot, and dishes cold,
Great plenty, much formality, small cheer,
And everybody out of their own sphere.
Twas strangein youth all action and all life,
Burning for pleasure, not averse from strife;
Womanthe fieldthe oceanall that gave
Promise of gladness, peril of a grave,
In turn he triedhe ransackd all below,
And found his recompense in joy or woe,
No tame trite medium; for his feelings sought
In that intenseness an escape from thought:
The tempest of his heart in scorn had gazed
On that the feebler elements hath raisd;
The rapture of his heart had lookd on high,
And askd if greater dwelt beyond the sky:
Chaind to excess, the slave of such extreme,
How woke he from the wildness of that dream,
Alas! he told notbut he did awake
To curse the witherd heart that would not break.
Twas twilight, and the sunless day went down
Over the waste of waters; like a veil,
Which, if withdrawn, would but disclose the frown
Of one whose hate is masked but to assail.
Twere vain to speak, to weep, to sigh;
Oh, more than tears of blood can tell
When wrung from guilts expiring eye,
Are in the word farewellfarewell.
Is far the worst of treasons. Dost thou deem
None rebels except subjects? The prince who
Neglects or violates his trust is more
A brigand than the robber-chief.
Upon her face there was the tint of grief,
The settled shadow of an inward strife,
And an unquiet drooping of the eye,
As if its lid were charged with unshed tears.
Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy.
Wars a brain-spattering, windpipe-slitting art,
Unless her cause by right be sanctified.
We two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted
To sever for years.
We will renew the times of peace and justice,
Condensing in a fair free commonwealth;
Not rash equality, but equal rights,
Proportiond like the columns of the temple
Giving and taking strength reciprocal,
And making firm the whole with grace and beauty;
So that no part could be removed without
Infringement of the general symmetry.
Well, well, the world must turn upon its axis,
And all mankind turn with it, heads or tails,
And live and die, make love and pay our taxes,
And as the veering winds shift, shift our sails.
Were t the last drop in the well,
As I gaspd upon the brink,
Ere my fainting spirit fell,
Tis to thee that I would drink.
What a strange thing is man! and what a stranger
Is woman! What a whirlwind is her head,
And what a whirlpool full of depth and danger
Is all the rest about her.
What boots the oft-repeated tale of strife,
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life?
The varying fortune of each separate field,
The fierce that vanquish, and the faint that yield?
The smoking ruin and the crumbled wall?
In this the struggle was the same with all.
What deep wounds ever closed without a scar?
The hearts bleed longest, and but heal to wear
That which disfigures it.
What exile from himself can flee?
To zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursues, whereer I be,
The blight of lifethe demon Thought.
What gem hath droppd and sparkles oer his chain?
The tear most sacred, shed for others pain,
That starts at oncebrightpurefrom pitys mine,
Already polishd by the Hand Divine.
What is the worst of woes that wait on age?
What stamps the wrinkle deeper on the brow?
To view each loved one blotted from lifes page,
And be alone on earth as I am now.
What of them is left, to tell
Where they lie, and how they fell?
Not a stone on their turf, nor a bone in their graves:
But they live in the Verse that immortally saves.
Whatsoeer thy birth,
Thou wert a beautiful thought and softly bodied forth.
When dinner has oppressd one,
I think it is perhaps the gloomiest hour
Which turns up out of the sad twenty-four.
When falls the Coliseum, Rome shall fall;
And when Rome fallsthe world.
When friendship or love our sympathies move,
When truth in a glance should appear,
The lips may beguile with a dimple or smile,
But the test of affections a tear.
When knaves and fools combind oer all prevail,
When justice halts, and right begins to fail,
Een then the boldest start from public sneers,
Afraid of shameunknown to other fears.
More darkly sin, by satire kept in awe,
And shrink from ridicule, though not from law.
When Youth and Pleasure meet
To chase the glowing Hours with flying feet.
Where is honor,
Innate and precept-strengthend, tis the rock
Of faith connubial: where it is notwhere
Light thoughts are lurking, or the vanities
Of worldly pleasure rankle in the heart,
Or sensual throbs convulse it.
Where is the world? cries Young, at eighty. Where
The world in which a man was born? Alas!
Where is the world of eight years past? Twas there
I look for ittis gone, a globe of glass
Cracked, shivered, vanished, scarcely gazed on ere
A silent change dissolves the glittering mass.
Statesmen, chiefs, orators, queens, patriots, kings,
And dandies, all are gone on the winds wings.
Who doth not feel, until his failing sight
Faints into dimness with its own delight,
His changing cheek, his sinking heart confess,
The mightthe majesty of Loveliness?
Who falls from all he knows of bliss,
Cares little into what abyss.
Whose game was empires, and whose stakes were thrones;
Whose table earth, whose dice were human bones.
With common men
There needs too oft the show of war to keep
The substance of sweet peace, and for a king,
Tis sometimes better to be feard than lovd.
With eyes that lookd into the very soul
* * * * *
Brightand as black and burning as a coal.
Wives in their husbands absences grow subtler,
And daughters sometimes run off with the butler.
Words are things; and a small drop of ink,
Falling like dew upon a thought, produces
That which makes thousands, perhaps millions, think.
Would you teach her to love?
For a time seem to rove;
At first she may frown in a pet;
But leave her awhile,
She shortly will smile,
And then you may win your coquette.
Ye glorious Gothic scenes! how much ye strike
All phantasies, not even excepting mine:
A gray wall, a green ruin, rusty pike,
Make my soul pass the equinoctial line
Between the present and past worlds, and hover
Upon their airy confines, half-seas over.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven,
If in your bright leaves we would read the fate
Of men and empires,tis to be forgiven,
That in our aspirations to be great,
Our destinies oerleap their mortal state,
And claim a kindred with you; for ye are
A beauty and a mystery, and create
In us such love and reverence from afar,
That fortune, fame, power, life, have named themselves a star.
Years have not seen, Time shall not see,
The hour that tears my soul from thee.
Years steal
Fire from the mind, as vigour from the limb;
And lifes enchanted cup but sparkles near the brim.
Yesit was loveif thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthend by distress,
Unmovd by absence, firm in every clime,
And yetoh more than all! untired by time,
Which nor defeated hope, nor baffled wile,
Could render sullen were she near to smile,
Nor rage could fire, nor sickness fret to vent
On her one murmur of his discontent;
Which still would meet with joy, with calmness part,
Lest that his look of grief should reach her heart;
Which nought removed, nor menaced to remove
If there be love in mortalsthis was love!
Yesthe same sin that overthrew the angels,
And of all sins most easily besets
Mortals the nearest to the angelic nature:
The vile are only vain; the great are proud.
Yet doth he live! exclaims th impatient heir,
And sighs for sables which he must not wear.
Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it,
For jealousy dislikes the world to know it.
Yet still there whispers the small voice within,
Heard thro gains silence, and oer glorys din;
Whatever creed be taught or land be trod,
Mans conscience is the oracle of God!
Yet, it is loveif thoughts of tenderness,
Tried in temptation, strengthened by distress,
Unmovd by absence, firm in every clime,
And yetoh! more than all!untird by time.
Yon sun that sets upon the sea
We follow in his flight;
Farewell awhile to him and thee,
My native LandGood-night!
Your thief looks
Exactly like the rest, or rather better;
Tis only at the bar, and in the dungeon,
That wise men know your felon by his features.
A change came oer the spirit of my dream.
A drop of ink may make a million think.
A gilded halo hovering round decay.
A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love.
A pretty woman is a welcome guest.
A quill hath proved the noblest gift to man.
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.
A schoolboys tale, the wonder of an hour!
A thousand years scarce serves to form a State; an hour may lay it in the dust.
Adversity is the first path to truth.
Age shakes Athenas tower, but spares gray Marathon.
Ah! happy years! once more who would not be a boy!
Ah! surely nothing dies but something mourns.
Alas! the breast that inly bleeds has nought to fear from outward blow.
Alas! there is no instinct like the heart!
All is to be feared where all is to be lost.
All our advantages are those of fortune; birth, wealth, health, beauty, are her accidents; and when we cry out against fate, it were well we should remember fortune can take naught save what she gave.
Ambiguous things that ape goats in their visage, women in their shape.
Among them, but not of them.
And both were young, and one was beautiful.
And mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
And not a breath crept through the rosy air, and yet the forest leaves seemed stirred with prayer.
And the whole world would henceforth be a wider prison unto me.
And they were canopied by the blue sky, so cloudless, clear, and purely beautiful, that God alone was to be seen in heaven.
And whispering, I will neer consentconsented.
As twilight melts beneath the moon away.
Away! we know that tears are vain, that death neer heeds nor hears distress.
Battles magnificently stern array!
Be thou the rainbow to the storms of life! the evening beam that smiles the clouds away and tints to-morrow with prophetic ray!
Beautiful spirit, with thy hair of light and dazzling eyes of glory!
Before decays effacing fingers have swept the lines where beauty lingers.
Blood only serves to wash Ambitions hands.
Born to be ploughed with years, and sown with cares, and reaped by Death, lord of the human soil.
But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.
But still her lips refused to say, farewell; for in that word, that fatal word, howeer we promise, hope, believe, there breathes despair.
By satire kept in awe, shrink from ridicule, though not from law.
Cervantes smiled Spains chivalry away.
Circumstance, that unspiritual god and miscreator, makes and helps along our coming evils.
Cleverness and cunning are incompatible.
Constant thought will overflow in words unconsciously.
Danger levels man and brute, and all are fellows in their need.
Dead scandals form good subjects for dissection.
Dead! God, how much there is in that little word!
Decayed in thy glory and sunk in thy worth.
Deep in my shut and silent heart.
Despair defies even despotism; there is that in my heart would make its way through hosts with leveled spears.
Eden revives in the first kiss of love.
Ennui is a growth of English root, though nameless in our language.
Eternity forbids thee to forget.
Every fool describes in these bright days his wondrous journey to some foreign court, and spawns his quarto, and demands your praise.
Experience has taught me that the only friends we can call our own, who can have no change, are those over whom the grave has closed; the seal of death is the only seal of friendship.
Experience, that chill touchstone whose sad proof reduces all things from their hue.
Fame is the thirst of youth.
Flowers whose wild odors breathe but agonies.
Folly loves the martyrdom of fame.
Fools are my theme, let satire be my song.
For violets plucked, the sweetest showers will neer make grow again.
Formed of two mighty tribes, the bores and bored.
Friendship is love without his wings!
Glory long has made the sages smile; tis something, nothing, words, illusion, wind.
Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.
Half dust, half deity, alike unfit to sink or soar.
He makes a solitude and calls it peace!
He who is only just is cruel.
He who surpasses or subdues mankind must look down on the hate of those below.
Heart on her lip and soul within her eyes.
Heaven gives its favorites early death.
Heaven in sunshine will requite the kind.
Her lips, whose kisses pout to leave their nest.
Her stature tallI hate a dumpy woman.
Hide thy tears,I do not bid thee not to shed them,it were easier to stop Euphrates at its source than one tear of a true and tender heart.
His bold brow bears but the scars of mind, the thoughts of years, not their decrepitude.
His heart was one of those which most enamours uswax to receive, and marble to retain.
How peaceful and how powerful is the grave!
How the giant element from rock to rock leaps with delirious bound!
I awoke one morning and found myself famous.
I loathe that low vice, curiosity.
I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.
Immortality oersweeps all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, and peals, like the eternal thunder of the deep, into my ears this truth: Thou livest forever!
In aught that tries the heart, how few withstand the proof.
In her first passion, woman loves her lover; in all the others, all she loves is love.
In her starry shade of dim and solitary loveliness, I learn the language of another world.
In solitude, where we are least alone.
In that corroding secrecy which gnaws the heart to show the effect, but not the cause.
In womans eye the unanswerable tear.
It is solitude should teach us how to die.
It is strange, but true; for truth is always strange, stranger than fiction.
It is to be hoped that, with all the modern improvements, a mode will be discovered of getting rid of bores; for it is too bad that a poor wretch can be punished for stealing your pocket-handkerchief or gloves, and that no punishment can be inflicted on those who steal your time, and with it your temper and patience, as well as the bright thoughts that might have entered into your mind (like the Irishman who lost the fortune before he had got it), but were frightened away by the bore.
Kiss rhymes to bliss in fact, as well as verse.
Know ye not who would be free themselves must strike the blow? by their right arms the conquest must be wrought?
Knowledge is not happiness, and science but an exchange of ignorance for that which is another kind of ignorance.
Lord of himself,that heritage of woe!
Love has made its best interpreter a sigh.
Love is old, old as eternity, but not outworn; with each new being born or to be born.
Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.
Mans conscience is the oracle of God!
Many a withering thought lies hid, not lost, in smiles that least befit those who wear them most.
Melancholy is a fearful gift. What is it but the telescope of truth!
Melancholy spreads itself betwixt heaven and earth, like envy between man and man, and is an everlasting mist.
Men are the sport of circumstances, when circumstances seem the sport of men.
Men love in haste, but they detest at leisure.
Methinks a being that is beautiful becometh more so as it looks on beauty, the eternal beauty of undying things.
Might shake the saintship of an anchorite.
Music arose with its voluptuous swell.
My native land, good-night!
Next to dressing for a rout or ball, undressing is a woe.
Nights sepulchre.
No hand can make the clock strike for me the hours that are passed.
None are all evil.
O Rome! my country! city of the soul!
Oh for a forty-parson power!
Oh! Natures noblest giftmy gray-goose quill!
One hates an author that is all author; fellows in foolscap uniform turned up with ink.
One last long sigh to love and thee, then back to busy life again.
Parent of golden dreamsromance!
Passion raves herself to rest, or flies.
Prolonged endurance tames the bold.
Put himself upon his good behavior.
Ready money is Aladdins lamp.
Revenge is lost in agony, and remorse to rage succeeds.
Scandal has something so piquant, it is a sort of cayenne to the mind.
She turned to him and smiled, but in that sort which makes not others smile.
She was a good deal shocked,not shocked at tears, for women shed and use them at their liking.
Skilled by a touch to deepen scandals tints with all the high mendacity of hints.
Sleep hath its own world, a boundary between the things misnamed death and existence.
Slight withal may be the things which bring back on the heart the weight which it would fling aside forever.
So let them ease their hearts with prate of equal rights, which man never knew.
So writhes the mind remorse hath riven.
Solitude has but one disadvantageit is apt to give one too high an opinion of ones self. In the world we are sure to be often reminded of every known or supposed defect we may have.
Soon or late love is his own avenger.
Sorrow is knowledge; they who know thee most must mourn the deepest over the fatal truth, the tree of knowledge is not that of life.
Striking the electric chain wherewith we are darkly bound.
Such partings break the heart they fondly hope to heal.
Suspicion is a heavy armor, and with its own weight impedes more than protects.
Sweet is revengeespecially to women.
Sweetest memorial, the first kiss of love.
That curse shall beforgiveness!
The best of prophets of the future is the past.
The bloom or blight of all mens happiness.
The busy have no time for tears.
The deceptions which the two sexes play off upon each other bring as many ill-sorted couples into the bonds of Hymen as ever could be done by the arbitrary pairing of a legal matchmaker.
The dew of compassion is a tear.
The dewy morn, with breath all incense and with cheek all bloom.
The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.
The drying up a single tear has more of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.
The feast of vultures, and the waste of life.
The heart will break, yet broken live on.
The light of love, the purity of grace, the mind, the music, breathing in her face.
The madness of the heart.
The many still must labor for the one! It is natures doom.
The mind, the music breathing from her face.
The night shows stars and women in a better light.
The nightingale, their only vesper-bell, sung sweetly to the rose the days farewell.
The only pleasure of fame is that it proves the way to pleasure; and the more intellectual our pleasure, the better for the pleasure and for us too.
The parted bosom clings to wonted home, if aught thats kindred cheer the welcome hearth.
The poetry of speech.
The power of thoughtthe magic of the mind.
The precious porcelain of human clay.
The ship from Ceylon, Inde, or far Cathay, unloads for him the fragrant produce of each trip.
The starlight dews all silently their tears of love instill.
The tocsin of the soulthe dinner bell!
The truly brave are soft of heart and eyes, and feel for what their duty bids them do.
The truth in masquerade.
There comes forever something between us and what we deem our happiness.
There is a very life in our despair.
There is music in all things, if men had ears.
There is no future pang can deal that justice on the self-condemned he deals on his own soul.
There is no god but God!to prayerlo! God is great!
There is no sterner moralist than pleasure.
There is no traitor like him whose domestic treason plants the poniard within the breast which trusted to his truth.
There is not a joy the world can give like that it takes away.
There should always be some foundation of fact for the most airy fabric; and pure invention is but the talent of a deceiver.
These blasted pines, wrecks of a single winter, barkless, branchless, a blighted trunk upon a cursed root.
They truly mourn that mourn without a witness.
Think not I am what I appear.
Thou more than stone of the philosopher!
Thou pendulum betwixt a smile and tear.
Thou true magnetic pole, to which all hearts point duly north, like trembling needles!
Though fame is smoke, its fumes are frankincense to human thoughts.
Thus ever fade my fairy dreams of bliss.
Time, the corrector when our judgments err, the test of truth and love; sole philosopher, for all besides are sophists.
T is a base abandonment of reason to resign our right of thought.
Tis sweet to hear the watchdogs honest bark bay deep-mouthed welcome as we draw near home.
Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come.
To fly from, need not be to hate, mankind; all are not fit with them to stir and toil.
To pass their lives on fountains and on flowers, and never know the weight of human hours.
To sanction vice and hunt decorum down.
To what gulfs a single deviation from the track of human duties leads!
Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of this world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.
Tully was not so eloquent as thou, thou nameless column with the buried base.
Vice, that digs her own voluptuous tomb!
Voluptuous as the first approach of sleep.
War, war is still the cry; War even to the knife!
We neer forget, tho there we are forgot.
What careth she for hearts when once possessed?
What exile from himself can flee?
What is the end of fame? it is but to fill a certain portion of uncertain paper.
When all is past, it is humbling to tread oer the weltering field of the tombless dead.
When Youth and Pleasure meet to chase the glowing hours with flying feet.
Where are the forms the sculptors soul hath seized? In him alone. Can nature show as fair?
Where there is mystery, it is generally supposed that there must also be evil.
Who falls from all he knows of bliss, cares little into what abyss.
Who listens once will listen twice; her heart be sure is not of ice, and one refusal no rebuff.
Who upon earth could live were all judged justly?
Whom the gods love die young, was said of yore.
Wisdom, knowledge, power,all combined.
With just enough of learning to misquote.
With pleasure dragged he almost longed for woe.
Ye stars! which are the poetry of heaven.
Years steal fire from the mind as vigor from the limb.
Yes, Honor decks the turf that wraps their clay.
You have greatly ventured, but all must do so who would greatly win.
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World Lit


text:
By John Goralski
Sports Writer
Hall-Southington hockey has knocked off a division one opponent. They've come out on top in all but one division two game, and they've swept through their division three pairings without as much as a hiccup. But make no bones about it. There was only one game circled at the start of the year—Newington-Berlin-Manchester.
Last year they met three times, and the Newington co-op won all three. The loss in the conference championships killed the Warrior-Knights' momentum in the postseason. Newington's win sparked a championship rally.
If the ultimate goal is a state title, Newington is the biggest obstacle.
"This is the one. To me, this was the most important game we played this year," said H-SHS coach Brian Cannon. "It was an exciting game. There were errors and omissions on both sides with some hard play. We came out physical in the beginning and kept it interesting."
The locals were almost too physical at the start. In the first period, the Warrior-Knights were whistled for three of their four penalties. With 5:31 remaining in the opening period, Newington rushed against the short-handed locals, and took a 1-0 lead with a scooped shot that looped over the pads of Hall-Southington's goalkeeper.
"You can't get down a man," said Cannon. "We took three minors in the first period, so we spent most of the first period short-handed. You just can't survive like that."
Hall-Southington answered in the final minute. With 30 seconds left, Joe Gambardella and Owen Kantor pushed the puck around the back of the net and out to the point. Brian Mahon's slapshot ricocheted off the goalie's pads and inched into the net.
Instead of trailing 1-0 at the break, the locals had tied the game.
"That was a huge boost for us," said Cannon. "If we went into that room down one on a power play goal, we would have probably been even more deflated in the second period. That goal was huge."
From there, both teams turned to their defenses. Jeff Moore made 42 saves for the Warrior-Knights. Drew O'Leary made 26 stops for Newington, and neither team was able to score in the second period. Hall-Southington came closest with a controversial goal called back by officials.
"We had something to prove after last year losing to them in three games, especially in the conference championship," said senior defenseman Will Thompson. "We have four solid defenders, and that's all it takes. Coach got us in great shape at the start of the season… Halfway through the season, coach switched up our defensive pairings, and I think that made a big difference."
With just over nine minutes remaining, Hall-Southington scored the game winner. Mahon led a rush at the net, and his pass found Jesse Patterson at the post. The locals held off a shorthanded situation in the final two minutes, and came away with the victory.
"That's what we were looking to do the whole game," said Cannon. "They are really good at keeping people to the outside of the boards when you get into their zone. We were looking to work a trailer or get a guy going to the pipe. We didn't do anything with a trailer all day. Luckily, we got a guy going to the post, and he got a stick on it."
With the victory, the Warrior-Knights (8-1) moved into first place in the division three rankings, but they aren't safe yet. The team still has two upcoming games against the Rockville co-op (8-1) and a rematch against Newington (8-2) with the chance of playing either one in the conference finals.
On the other hand, the Warrior-Knights have established themselves as the one to beat.
"We came out knowing that we had to battle the whole game. They're a good team, but we knew what we had to do. We came out and got the job done. We played physical and did what we had to do to win," said senior co-captain Justin Rose. "This is a big rivalry game for us. We played them in the conference championship last year, and they beat us. We didn't let that slip. It was still in the back of our heads."

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ABSTRACT As computation continues to move into the cloud, the computing platform of interest no longer resembles a pizza box or a refrigerator, but a warehouse full of computers. These new large datacenters are quite different from traditional hosting facilities of earlier times and cannot be viewed simply as a collection of co-located servers. Large portions of the hardware and software resources in these facilities must work in concert to efficiently deliver good levels of Internet service performance, something that can only be achieved by a holistic approach to their design and deployment. In other words, we must treat the datacenter itself as one massive warehouse-scale computer (WSC). We describe the architecture of WSCs, the main factors influencing their design, operation, and cost structure, and the characteristics of their software base. We hope it will be useful to architects and programmers of todayas WSCs, as well as those of future many-core platforms which may one day implement the equivalent of todayas WSCs on a single board. NOTES FOR THE SECOND EDITION After nearly four years of substantial academic and industrial developments in warehouse-scale computing, we are delighted to present our first major update to this lecture. The increased popularity of public clouds has made WSC software techniques relevant to a larger pool of programmers since our first edition. Therefore, we expanded Chapter 2 to reflect our better understanding of WSC software systems and the toolbox of software techniques for WSC programming. In Chapter 3, we added to our coverage of the evolving landscape of wimpy vs. brawny server trade-offs, and we now present an overview of WSC interconnects and storage systems that was promised but lacking in the original edition. Thanks largely to the help of our new co-author, Google Distinguished Engineer Jimmy Clidaras, the material on facility mechanical and power distribution design has been updated and greatly extended (see Chapters 4 and 5). Chapters 6 and 7 have also been revamped significantly. We hope this revised edition continues to meet the needs of educators and professionals in this area.Moreover, large and complex Internet services are often composed of several software modules or layers that are not ... provided via middleware such as a provisioning system for virtual machines that restarts a failed VM on a spare node . ... Failures are one cause of unavailability, but often are much less common than other causes, such as planned maintenance for hardware or software upgrades. Thusanbsp;...
|The Datacenter as a Computer
|Luiz André Barroso, Jimmy Clidaras, Urs Hölzle
|Morgan & Claypool Publishers - 2013-07-01
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THIS RESTAURANT IS CLOSED PJ's Coffee & Tea Co.
Loyola University Danna Center Send to Phone
504-865-2018 | Make Restaurant Reservations
OpenBreakfast & Lunch daily
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THIS RESTAURANT IS CLOSED PJ's Coffee & Tea Co. Restaurant Review: HURRICANE KATRINA: this establishment is currently closed. For a New Orleans Travel Update as well as resources, information and help click here. PJ's Coffee & Tea Co., a locally owned chain, introduced New Orleans to the modern-day concept of a coffeehouse purveying a wide range of beans, roasts and flavor additives. It has thrived in a dozen or more franchised locations throughout the city, each with its own personality but each carrying the full roster of PJ's selections. The hot coffees list changes every day, with three freshly roasted brews offered. Our favorite on a sultry New Orleans summer day is the Viennese blend iced coffee, with a splash of Melipone vanilla.
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I found a good number of them at Midnight Madness, and got 4 of them. They're pretty cool.
Yeah, and I don't think they've really shipped much yet like the Boga and BARC Speeder. Should start showing up though in better quantities.Get 'em while you can.
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Learners will explore aspects of the Sun and solar activity by modeling them as solar cupcakes. Information and imagery are supplied to learn about the Sun, solar activity, eclipses, transits, observing the Sun, and the color of the Sun at different... (View More) times of the day. Links to resources are also provided that highlight NASA's solar missions and where to learn more about the Sun. (View Less)
Create a 3D model of the Chandra spacecraft. Note: requires a 3D printer.
This site features information about constructing a LEGO model of the Global Precipitation Measurement (GPM) Mission Core Observatory. Two options for building the GPM model are provided: students can construct a 3D model on the LEGO website or... (View More) build an actual LEGO model of the satellite (information is provided for purchasing individual parts or for purchasing a pre-packaged kit). In addition to learning about the primary components of the GPM satellite, students will also learn facts about the mission, its technology and instrumentation. (View Less)
This is a lithograph about NASA's Magnetospheric Multiscale Mission, or MMS. Learners will cut out and assemble a colorful 3D model of an MMS spacecraft. Web links, additional facts, and QR codes are included for audiences to access more information.
This is a set of instructions for building a physical model. The model simulates the Sun's paths across the sky at summer solstice, winter solstice, and the spring and fall equinoxes. A bead simulates the Sun, moving along a cord, from rising along... (View More) the eastern horizon to setting on the western. The bead can be moved from path to path to demonstrate solar alignments, the solstices, and equinoxes. The model is created to be unique to the user's latitude, and is useful for including in lessons that teach about the seasons or archaeoastronomy. (View Less)
This activity allows participants to build a paper model of the GPM Core Observatory and learn about the technology the satellite uses to measure precipitation from space. Directions explain how to cut, fold and glue the individual pieces together... (View More) to make the model. The accompanying information sheet has details about the systems in the satellite including the Dual-frequency Precipitation Radar (DPR), the GPM Microwave Imager (GMI), the High Gain Antenna, avionics and star trackers, propulsion system and solar array, as well as a math connection and additional engineering challenges. (View Less)
Materials Cost: 1 cent - $1 per group of students
This is a paper model of the Nuclear Spectroscopic Telescope Array (NuSTAR) satellite.
Materials Cost: 1 cent - $1 per student
This is an activity about the rotation of the Moon. Learners use a penny and a quarter to model that the Moon does indeed spin on its axis as it orbits the Earth. They find that the Moon keeps the same face toward the Earth, but receives... (View More) illumination from the Sun on all sides in turn. This activity is part of Explore! Marvel Moon, a series of activities developed specifically for use in libraries. (View Less)
Learners explore Earth's rotation and the Moon's role in our 24-hour day, using their bodies to explore and model the Earth's daily motions in this kinethetic exploration. They relate the motion of the Earth about its axis (rotation) to the... (View More) appearance of the sky over the course of the day. Learners consider the role of the Moon in slowing Earth's rotation over time; if the Moon didn't exist, Earth might be spinning more quickly, giving us an eight-hour day! This activity is part of Explore! Marvel Moon, a series of activities developed specifically for use in libraries. (View Less)
Learners create edible models of the interior composition of the Earth and Moon. Common food items are used to construct the cores, mantles, and crusts of both planetary objects. They then compare their structure as they are eating their models.... (View More) This activity is part of Explore! Marvel Moon, a series of activities developed specifically for use in libraries. (View Less)
Materials Cost: $1 - $5 per group of students