British Humorist and Poet
British Humorist and Poet
Ben Battle was a soldier bold, and used to war’s alarms; but a cannon-ball took off his legs, so he laid down his arms.
I remember, I remember the house where I was born, the little window where the sun came peeping in at morn: it never came a minute too soon nor brought too long a day. I remember, I remember… I remember, I remember the fir-trees dark and high; I used to think their slender tops were close against the sky; it was a childish ignorance, but now ’t is little joy to know I ’m farther off from heaven than when I was a boy. I remember, I remember.
Some minds improve by travel, others, rather, resemble copper wire, or brass, which get the narrower by going farther.
Well, something must be done for May, the time is drawing nigh - to figure in the Catalogue, and woo the public eye.
Boughs are daily rifled by the gusty thieves, and the book of Nature getteth short of leaves.
I saw old Autumn in the misty morn stand shadowless like silence, listening to silence. Peace and rest at length have come all the day’s long toil is past, and each heart is whispering, “Home, home at last.”
Spurned by the young, but hugged by the old to the very verge of the churchyard mould.
What is a modern poet's fate? To write his thoughts upon a slate; the critic spits on what is done, gives it a wipe — and all is gone.
If that the men that lovers them pretende to women weren faithful, good, and true, and dreaden them to deceive and offende, women to love them woulde not eschew; but every day hath man an hearte new it upon one abide can no while. What force is it, such one for to beguile?
Straight down the crooked lane, and all round the square. A plain Direction.
When he is forsaken, withered and shaken, what can an old man do but die? Spring it is cheery.
But who would rush at a benighted man, and give him two black eyes for being blind?
Lives of great men oft remind us as we o'er their pages turn, that we too may leave behind us —Letters that we ought to burn.
Take her up tenderly, lift her with care; fashioned so slenderly,young, and so fair!
Whoso that frõ the poore mannes cry stoppeth his eares though he loude crye, shall not be heard; and moreover, rede ye, his days shall increase and multiplye that avarice hateth — this is no lie.
Each cloud-capt mountain is a holy altar; an organ breathes in every grove; and the full heart ’s a Psalter, rich in deep hymn of gratitude and love.
Love exceedeth all treasure in price.
That a man be willing, when others are so too, as far forth as for peace and defence of himself he shall think it necessary, to lay down this right to all things; and be contented with so much liberty against other men, as he would allow other men against himself.
With fingers weary and worn, with eyelids heavy and red, a woman sat in unwomanly rags plying her needle and thread,— Stitch! stitch! stitch! O men with sisters dear, O men with mothers and wives, it is not linen you’re wearing out, but human creatures’ lives! Sewing at once a double thread, a shroud as well as a shirt… O God! that bread should be so dear, and flesh and blood so cheap! No blessed leisure for love or hope, but only time for grief…My tears must stop, for every drop hinders needle and thread.
Many a servant unto his lord saith, that all the world speaketh of him honoúr, when the contrary of that is sooth, in faith.
That fierce thing they call a conscience.
With how great labour or with how great paine men winne good, to the world leave it shall; unto the pit goeth naught but the careyne. [carcass]