British Humorist and Poet
British Humorist and Poet
Alas, where is this worldes stablenesse? Here up, here doun; here honour, here repreef; [reproof] Now whole, now sick; now bounty, now mischief.
He lies like a hedgehog rolled up the wrong way, tormenting himself with his prickles.
Our very hopes belied our fears, our fears our hopes belied we thought her dying when she slept, and sleeping when she died.
There’s a double beauty whenever a swan swims on a lake with her double thereon.
And there is even a happiness that makes the heart afraid. There’s not a string attuned to mirth but has its chord in melancholy.
Heaven gives our days of failing strength indemnifying fleetness and those of youth a seeming length proportioned to their sweetness.
Pity it is to slay the meanest thing. One more unfortunate weary of breath, rashly importunate, gone to her death.
And ye, who have met with Adversity's blast, And been bow'd to the earth by its fury; To whom the Twelve Months, that have recently pass'd Were as harsh as a prejudiced jury — Still, fill to the Future! and join in our chime, The regrets of remembrance to cozen, And having obtained a New Trial of Time, Shout in hopes of a kindlier dozen.
His death, which happened in his berth, at forty-odd befell: they went and told the sexton, and the sexton tolled the bell.
Seem’d washing his hands with invisible soap in imperceptible water.
Another tumble! That’s his precious nose!
How widely its agencies vary,— to save, to ruin, to curse, to bless,— as even its minted coins express, now stamped with the image of Good Queen Bess, and now of a Bloody Mary.
She stood breast-high amid the corn clasped by the golden light of morn, like the sweetheart of the sun, who many a glowing kiss had won.
We watched her breathing through the night, her breathing soft and low, as in her breast the wave of life kept heaving to and fro.
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.