Eliza Cook


English Author, Chartist Poet and Writer

Author Quotes

I love it, I love it, and who shall dare To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?

The hills have been high for man's mounting, The woods have been dense for his axe, The stars have been thick for his counting, The sands have been wide for his tracks. The sea has been deep for his diving, the poles have been broad for his sway, But bravely he's proved in his striving, That "Where there's a will there's a way."

There's a magical tie to the land of our home, which the heart cannot break, though the footsteps may roam.

Though language forms the preacher, 'Tis good works make the man.

Who would not rather trust and be deceived?

Why should we strive, with cynic frown, to knock their fairy castles down?

How cruelly sweet are the echoes that start, when memory plays an old tune on the heart.

Both beauty and ugliness are equally to be dreaded; the one as a dangerous gift, the other as a melancholy affliction.

But nature, with a matchless hand, sends forth her nobly born,
And laughs the paltry attributes of wealth and rank to scorn;
She moulds with care a spirit rare, half human, half divine,
And cries, exulting, "Who can make a gentleman like mine?"

Exaggeration misleads the credulous and offends the perceptive.

I miss thee, my mother! thy image is still
The deepest impress'd on my heart,
And the tablet so faithful in death must be chill,
Ere a line of that image depart.

I miss thee, my mother, when young health has fled.
And I sink in the languor of pain,
Where, where is the arm that once pillowed my head,
And the ear that once heard me complain?
Other hands may support me, gentle accents may fall--
For the fond and the true are still mine:
I've a blessing for each; I am grateful to all,--
But whose care can be soothing as thine?

I prize the soul that slumbers in a quiet eye.

In desert wilds, in midnight gloom;
In grateful joy, in trying pain;
In laughing youth, or nigh the tomb;
Oh! when is prayer unheard or vain?

Oh! never breathe a dead one's name,
When those who lov'd that one are nigh;
It pours a lava through the frame
That chokes the breast and fills the eye.

So live, that thy young and glowing breast can think of death without a sign

The coward wretch whose hand and heart
Can bear to torture aught below,
Is ever first to quail and start
From slightest pain or equal foe.

There are some spirits nobly just, unwarp'd by pelf or pride,
Great in the calm, but greater still when dash'd by adverse tide;--
They hold the rank no king can give, no station can disgrace;
Nature puts forth her gentleman, and monarchs must give place.

There's one whose fearless courage yet has never failed in fight;
Who guards with zeal our country's weal, our freedom, and our right;
But though his strong and ready arm spreads havoc in its blow;
Cry "Quarter!" and that arm will be the first to spare its foe.
He recks not though proud Glory's shout may be the knell of death;
The triumph won, without a sigh he yields his parting breath.
He's Britain's boast, and claims a toast! "In peace, my boys, or war,
Here's to the brave upon the wave, the gallant English Tar."

Traverse the desert, and then ye can tell
What treasures exist in the cold deep well,
Sink in despair on the red parch'd earth,
And then ye may reckon what water is worth.

Tree of the gloom, o'erhanging the tomb,
Thou seem'st to love the churchyard sod;
Thou ever art found on the charnel ground,
Where the laughing and happy have rarely trod.
When thy branches trail to the wintry gale,
Thy wailing is sad to the hearts of men;
When the world is bright in a summer's light,
'Tis only the wretched that love thee then.
The golden moth and the shining bee
Will seldom rest on the Willow-tree.

Truth! Truth! where is the sound
Of thy calm, unflatt'ring voice to be found?
We may go to the Senate, where Wisdom rules,
And find but deceiv'd or deceiving fools:
Who dare trust the sages of old,
When one shall unsay what another has told?
And even the lips of childhood and youth
But rarely echo the tone of Truth.

Where is the one who hath not had
Some anguish-trial, long gone by,
Steal, spectre-like, all dark and sad
On busy thought, till the full eye
And aching breast, betray'd too well,
The past still held undying spell?

Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start
When Memory plays an old tune on the heart!

Where the wind-rows are spread for the butterfly's bed,
And the clover-bloom falleth around.

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English Author, Chartist Poet and Writer