Strike-for your altars and your fires;
Strike-for the green graves of your sires;
God-and your native land!
They love their land, because it is their own, And scorn to give aught other reason why; Would shake hands with a king upon his throne, And think it kindness to his majesty. - Fitz
There is an evening twilight of the heart, When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest.
Ere the dolphin dies
Its hues are brightest. Like an infant's breath
Are tropic winds before the voice of death.
The wild-flower wreath of feeling, the sunbeam of the heart.
And Burns--though brief the race he ran,
Though rough and dark the paths he trod,
Lived--died--in form and soul a man,
The image of his God.
Come to the bridal-chamber, Death!
Come to the mother's, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath!
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke!
And thou art terrible--the tear,
The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier;
And all we know, or dream, or fear
Of agony, are thine.
Beauty,--the fading rainbow's pride.
What is man's love? His vows are broke even while his parting kiss is warm.
I sorrow that all fair things must decay.
None knew thee but to love thee.
This bank-note world.
I cannot spare the luxury of believing that all things beautiful are what they seem.
Green be the turf above thee,
Friend of my better days!
None knew thee but to love thee,
Nor named thee but to praise.
It is a rich storehouse for those who love quotations. It is as full of fine bon mots as a Christmas pudding is full of plums.
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