James Beattie


Scottish Poet

Author Quotes

At the close of the day when the hamlet is still, and mortals the sweets of forgetfulness prove, when naught but the torrent is heard on the hill, and naught but the nightingale's song in the grove.

Let those deplore their doom, whose hope still grovels in this dark sojourn; but lofty souls, who look beyond the tomb, can smile at Fate, and wonder how they mourn.

They who, by speech or writing, present to the ear or eye of modesty any of the indecencies I allude to, are pests of society.

Be ignorance thy choice where knowledge leads to woe.

Mine be the breezy hill that skirts the down, Where a green grassy turf is all I crave, With here and there a violet bestrewn, Fast by a brook or fountain's murmuring wave; And many an evening sun shine sweetly on my grave!

This happy sensibility to the beauties of nature should be cherished in young persons. It engages them to contemplate the Creator in his wonderful works; it purifies and harmonizes the soul, and prepares it for moral and intellectual discipline; it supplies a never-failing source of amusement; it contributes even to bodily health; and, as a strict analogy subsists between material and moral beauty, it leads the heart by an easy transition from the one to the other, and thus recommends virtue for its transcendent loveliness, and makes vice appear the object of contempt and abomination. An intimate acquaintance with the best descriptive poets?Spenser, Milton, and Thomson, but above all with the divine Georgic?joined to some practice in the art of drawing, will promote this amiable sensibility in early years; for then the face of nature has novelty superadded to its other charms, the passions are not pre-engaged, the heart is free from care, and the imagination warm and romantic.

Borne on the swift, tho' silent wings of time, old age comes on apace, to ravage all the clime.

No jealousy their dawn of love o'ercast, nor blasted were their wedded days with strife; each season look'd delightful as it past, to the fond husband, and the faithful wife.

This, though there may be many an exception, is in general true of the visible signs of our passions; and it is no less true of the audible. A man habitually peevish, or passionate, or querulous, or imperious, may be known by the sound of his voice, as well as by his physiognomy.

But when shall spring visit the mouldering urn? Oh when shall it dawn on the night of the grave?

Observe the effect of argumentation in poetry: we have too much of it in Milton; it transforms the noblest thoughts into drawling inferences, and the most beautiful language into prose.

Though richest hues the peacock's plumes adorn, yet horror screams from his discordant throat. Rise, sons of harmony, and hail the morn, while warbling larks on russet pinions float; or seek at noon the woodland scene remote, where the gray linnets carol from the hill: O let them ne'er, with artificial note, to please a tyrant, strain the little bill, but sing what heaven inspires, and wander where they will.

By the glare of false science betrayed, that leads to bewilder and dazzles to blind.

Obviously we're bottom and not doing very well but we showed what we're made of today. Chelsea had a lot of possession, probably 70 per cent but we sucked it up at the back and I thought we did really well today.

Thy shades, thy silence, now be mine, thy charms my only theme; my haunt the hollow cliff, whose pine waves o'er the gloomy stream. Where the sacred owl, on pinions gray, breaks from the rustling boughs, and down the lone vale sails away, to more profound repose.

Contentment opes the source of every joy.

Old age comes on apace to ravage all the clime.

'Tis night, and the landscape is lovely no more; I mourn, but you woodlands I mourn not for you! For spring is returning your charms to restore, perfumed with fresh fragrance and glittering with dew. Nor yet for the ravage of winter I mourn, kind nature the embryo blossom shall save; but when shall spring visit the mouldering urn?

Dreadful is their doom, whom doubt has driven to censure fate, and pious hope forego.

Or merry swains, who quaff the nut-brown ale, and sing enamored of the nut-brown maid.

To the pure soul by Fancy's fire refined, ah, what is mirth but turbulence unholy, when with the charm compared of heavenly melancholy.

Ah! when shall it dawn on the night of the grave!

Duncan can definitely play a part in the second half of the season. Duncan's had a tremendous career and he's a legend here. We would not want to see him call it a day. We will be trying to persuade him in every way we can, and I'd like to see him stay on.

Perish the lore that deadens young desire!

True dignity is his whose tranquil mind virtue has raised above the things below; who, every hope and fear to heaven resign'd shrinks not, though fortune aims her deadliest blow.

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Scottish Poet