Great Throughts Treasury

"Better to build schoolrooms for the boy than cells for the man."

"A cheer for the snow—the drifting snow; Smoother and purer than Beauty’s brow; The creature of thought scarce likes to tread On the delicate carpet so richly spread. With feathery wreaths the forest is bound, And the hills are with glittering diadems crown’d: ’Tis the fairest scene we can have below. Sing, welcome, then, to the drifting snow! Bring the tulip and the rose, While their brilliant beauty glows. 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?” 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? In desert winds, 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. 7 Oh, how cruelly sweet are the echoes that start When Memory plays an old tune on the heart! 8 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.” 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? Both beauty and ugliness are equally to be dreaded; the one as a dangerous gift, the other as a melancholy affliction. Exaggeration misleads the credulous and offends the perceptive. I prize the soul that slumbers in a quiet eye. So live, that thy young and glowing breast can think of death without a sigh. There spring the wild-flowers—fair as can be. While the dog-roses blow and the dew-spangles shine."

"On what strange stuff ambition feeds!"

"There's a star in the West that shall never go down Till the records of Valour decay, We must worship its light though it is not our own, For liberty burst in its ray. Shall the name of a Washington ever be heard By a freeman, and thrill not his breast? Is there one out of bondage that hails not the word, As a Bethlehem Star of the West?"

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

"The Prince and the peasant, the despot and slave; All, all must bow down to the worm and the grave."

"The coward wretch whose hand and heart can bear to torture ought below, Is ever first to quail and start from the slightest pain or equal foe."

"'Tis a glorious charter, deny it who can, That's breathed in the words, "I'm an Englishman.""

"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."

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

"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?"

"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."

"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."

"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."

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

"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.""

"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."

"I prize the soul that slumbers in a quiet eye."

"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?"

"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?"

"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."

"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?""

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

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

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

"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?"

"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.""

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