C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Moore

A spirit pure as hers,

Is always pure, even while it errs:

As sunshine, broken in the rill,

Though turned astray, is sunshine still.

Alas! how light a cause may move

Dissension between hearts that love!

Hearts that the world in vain had tried,

And sorrow but more closely tied;

That stood the storm, when waves were rough,

Yet in a sunny hour fall off.

Alas! too well, too well they know

The pain, the penitence, the woe

That passion brings down on the best,

The wisest and the loveliest.

All that’s bright must fade—

The brightest still the fleetest;

All that’s sweet was made

But to be lost when sweetest.

Amaranths such as crown the maids

That wander through Zamara’s shades.

And be their rest unmov’d

By the white moonlight’s dazzling power:

None, but the loving and belov’d,

Should be awake at this sweet hour.

And conscience, truth and honesty are made

To rise and fall, like other wares of trade.

And music too—dear music! that can touch

Beyond all else the soul that loves it much—

Now heard far off, so far as but to seem

Like the faint, exquisite music of a dream.

And see—the Sun himself!—on wings

Of glory up the East he springs.

Angel of Light! who from the time

Those heavens began their march sublime,

Hath first of all the starry choir

Trod in his Maker’s steps of fire!

And then her look—Oh, where’s the heart so wise

Could, unbewilder’d, meet those matchless eyes?

Quick, restless, strange, but exquisite withal,

Like those of angels.

And violets, transform’d to eyes,

Inshrined a soul within their blue.

And when once the young heart of a maiden is stolen,

The maiden herself will steal after it soon.

Anemones and seas of gold,

And new-blown lilies of the river,

And those sweet flow’rets that unfold

Their buds on Camadera’s quiver.

Angel of light! who from the time

Those heavens began their march sublime,

Hath first of all the starry choir

Trod in his Maker’s steps of fire!

As down in the sunless retreats of the ocean

Sweet flowers are springing no mortal can see,

So deep in my soul the still prayer of devotion

Unheard by the world, rises silent to Thee.

As the sunflower turns on her god when he sets,

The same look which she turn’d when he rose.

Bastard Freedom waves

Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.

Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,

Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,

Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,

Like fairy-gifts fading away!

Thou would’st still be ador’d, as this moment thou art,

Let thy loveliness fade as it will,

And, around the dear ruin, each wish of my heart

Would entwine itself verdantly still!

Better to dwell in freedom’s hall,

With a cold damp floor and mouldering wall,

Than bow the head and tend the knee

In the proudest palace of slaverie.

Blest power of sunshine! genial day!

What balm, what life is in thy ray;

To feel thee is such real bliss,

That had the world no joy but this,

To sit in sunshine calm and sweet,—

It were a world too exquisite,

For man to leave it for the gloom,

The deep cold shadow of the tomb.

But Faith, fanatic Faith, once wedded fast

To some dear falsehood, hugs it to the last.

But soon, the prospect clearing,

By cloudless starlight on he treads

And thinks no lamp so cheering

As that light which heaven sheds.

Come, rest in this bosom, my own stricken deer!

Tho’ the herd hath fled from thee, thy home is still here;

Here is still the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,

And the heart and the hand all thy own to the Last!

Enough, that we are parted—that there rolls

A flood of headlong fate between our souls,

Whose darkness severs me as wide from thee

As hell from heaven, to all eternity!

Even now, as, wandering upon Erie’s shore,

I hear Niagara’s distant cataract roar,

I sigh for England—oh! these weary feet

Have many a mile to journey, ere we meet.

Every season hath its pleasures;

Spring may boast her flowery prime,

Yet the vineyard’s ruby treasures

Brighten Autumn’s sob’rer time.

For, bless the gude mon, gin he had his ain way,

He’d na let a cat on the Sabbath say “mew;”

Nae birdie maun whistle, nae lambie maun play,

An’ Phœbus himsel’ could na travel that day,

As he’d find a new Joshua in Andie Agnew.

Go where glory waits thee;

But while fame elates thee,

O, still remember me.

When the praise thou meetest,

To thine ear is sweetest,

O, then remember me.

Good-bye—my paper’s out so nearly,

I’ve only room for, Yours sincerely.

Hath the pearl less whiteness

Because of its birth?

Hath the violet less brightness

For growing near earth?

Here still is the smile that no cloud can o’ercast,

And the heart, and the hand, all thy own to the last.

How calm—how beautiful comes on

The stilly hour, when storms have gone,

When warring winds have died away

And clouds, beneath the dancing ray

Melt off and leave the land and sea,

Sleeping in bright tranquillity.

How dear to me the hour when daylight dies,

And sunbeams melt along the silent sea,

For then sweet dreams of other days arise,

And memory breathes her vesper sigh to thee.

How sweet the answer Echo makes

To music at night,

When, roused by lute or horn, she wakes,

And far away, o’er lawns and lakes,

Goes answering light.

I find the doctors and the sages

Have differ’d in all climes and ages,

And two in fifty scarce agree

On what is pure morality.

If I speak to thee in friendship’s name,

Thou think’st I speak too coldly;

If I mention Love’s devoted flame,

Thou say’st I speak too boldly.

In vain we fondly strive to trace

The soul’s reflection in the face;

In vain we dwell on lines and crosses,

Crooked mouths and short probosces;

Boobies have looked as wise and bright

As Plato and the Stagyrite

And many a sage and learned skull

Has peeped through windows dark and dull.

It seem’d as if each thought and look

And motion were that minute chain’d

Fast to the spot such root she took,

And—like a sunflower by a brook,

With face upturn’d—so still remain’d!

It was an evening bright and still

As ever blush’d on wave or bower,

Smiling from heaven, as if nought ill

Could happen in so sweet an hour.

Just prophet, let the damn’d one dwell

Full in the sight of Paradise,

Beholding heaven and feeling hell.

Life is a waste of wearisome hours,

Which seldom the rose of enjoyment adorns,

And the heart, that is soonest awake to the flowers,

Is always the first to be touch’d by the thorns.

Like a young eagle who has lent his plume,

To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom,

See their own feathers pluck’d, to wing the dart,

Which rank corruption destines for their heart!

Like ships that have gone down at sea,

When heaven was all tranquillity.

Like tulip-beds of different shape and dyes,

Bending beneath the invisible west-wind’s sighs.

Long, long be my heart with such memories fill’d!

Like the vase, in which roses have once been distill’d—

You may break, you may shatter the vase if you will,

But the scent of the roses will hang round it still.

Martyrs! who left for our reaping

Truths you had sown in your blood—

Sinners! whom long years of weeping

Chastened from evil to good—

*****

Say, through what region enchanted

Walk ye, in Heaven’s sweet air?

Say, to what spirits ’tis granted,

Bright souls, to dwell with you there?

Music!—O! how faint, how weak,

Language fades before thy spell!

Why should Feeling ever speak,

When thou can’st breathe her soul so well?

Friendship’s balmy words may feign—

Love’s are even more false than they;

Oh! ’tis only music’s strain

Can sweetly soothe, and not betray.

My birthday!—what a different sound

That word had in my youthful ears;

And how each time the day comes round,

Less and less white its mark appears.

My only books

Were woman’s looks,

And folly’s all they’ve taught me.

Never does a wilder song

Steal the breezy lyre along,

When the wind in odors dying,

Wooes it with enamor’d sighing.

Not more the rose, the queen of flowers,

Outblushes all the bloom of bower,

Than she unrivall’d grace discloses;

The sweetest rose, where all are roses.

Now in his Palace of the West,

Sinking to slumber, the bright Day,

Like a tired monarch fann’d to rest,

’Mid the cool airs of Evening lay;

While round his couch’s golden rim

The gaudy clouds, like courtiers, crept—

Struggling each other’s light to dim,

And catch his last smile e’er he slept.

O woman! whose form and whose soul

Are the spell and the light of each path we pursue;

Whether sunn’d in the tropics, or chill’d at the pole,

If woman be there, there is happiness too.

O! ever thus from childhood’s hour,

I’ve seen my fondest hopes decay;

I never loved a tree or flower,

But ’twas the first to fade away!

O, the Shamrock, the green, immortal Shamrock!

Chosen leaf

Of bard and chief,

Old Erin’s native Shamrock.

Oft in the stilly night

E’er slumber’s chain has bound me,

Fond memory brings the light

Of other days around me.

Oh! if there be, on this earthly sphere,

A boon, an offering heaven holds dear,

’Tis the last libation Liberty draws

From the heart that bleeds and breaks in her cause.

Oh! let not tears embalm my tomb,

None but the dews by twilight given!

Oh! let not sighs disturb the gloom

None but the whispering winds of heaven.

Oh! that a dream so sweet, so long enjoy’d,

Should be so sadly, cruelly destroy’d!

Oh, colder than the wind that freezes

Founts, that but now in sunshine play’d,

Is that congealing pang which seizes

The trusting bosom, when betray’d.

Oh, for a tongue to curse the slave,

Whose treason, like a deadly blight,

Comes o’er the councils of the brave,

And blasts them in their hour of might—!

Oh, the heart, that has truly loved, never forgets,

But as truly loves on to the close,

As the sun-flower turns on her god, when he sets,

The same look which she turn’d when he rose.

One of those passing rainbow dreams,

Half light, half shade, which fancy’s beams

Paint on the fleeting mists that roll,

In trance or slumber, round the soul!

Our hearts, my love, were form’d to be

The genuine twins of sympathy,

They live with one sensation:

In joy or grief, but most in love,

Like chords in unison they move,

And thrill with like vibration.

Our rocks are rough, but smiling there

The acacia waves her yellow hair,

Lonely and sweet, nor loved the less

For flow’ring in a wilderness.

Playful blushes, that seemed nought

But luminous escapes of thought.

Pleasure’s the only noble end

To which all human powers should tend;

And virtue gives her heavenly lore,

But to make pleasure please us more!

Wisdom and she were both design’d

To make the senses more refined,

That man might revel free from cloying,

Then most a sage, when most enjoying!

Prayer moves the hand that moves the universe.

Holy beginning of a holy cause,

When heroes, girt for freedom’s combat, pause

Before high Heaven, and, humble in their might,

Call down its blessing on that coming fight.

Rose of the desert! thus should woman be

Shining uncourted, lone and safe, like thee.

Rose of the garden! such is woman’s lot—

Worshipp’d while blooming—when she fades, forgot.

Rose! thou art the sweetest flower,

That ever drank the amber shower;

Rose! thou art the fondest child

Of dimpled Spring, the wood-nymph wild.

Shall I ask the brave soldier, who fights by my side

In the cause of mankind, if our creeds agree?

Shall I give up the friend I have valued and tried,

If he kneel not before the same altar with me?

From the heretic girl of my soul should I fly,

To seek somewhere else a more orthodox kiss?

No! perish the hearts, and the laws that try

Truth, valor, or love, by a standard like this!

So life’s year begins and closes;

Days, though short’ning, still can shine;

What though youth gave love and roses,

Age still leaves us friends and wine.

Steals timidly away,

Shrinking as violets do in summer’s ray.

Sunflowers by the sides of brooks,

Turn’d to the sun.

Take all the pleasure of all the spheres,

And multiply each through endless years,

One minute of Heaven is worth them all.

That holy shame, which ne’er forgets

What clear renown it us’d to wear;

Whose blush remains when virtue sets,

To show her sunshine has been there.

The glorious Angel, who was keeping

The gates of Light, beheld her weeping;

And, as he nearer drew and listen’d

To her sad song, a tear-drop glisten’d

Within his eyelids, like the spray

From Eden’s fountain, where it lies

On the blue flow’r, which—Bramins say—

Blooms nowhere but in Paradise.

The harp that once through Tara’s halls

The soul of music shed,

Now hangs as mute on Tara’s walls,

As if that soul were fled.

The love of gold that meanest rage,

And latest folly of man’s sinking age,

Which, rarely venturing in the van of life,

While nobler passions wage their heated strife,

Comes skulking last with selfishness and fear

And dies collecting lumber in the rear!

The rose distils a healing balm

The beating pulse of pain to calm.

Then should some cloud pass over

The brow of sire or lover,

Think ’tis the shade

By Victory made

Whose wings right o’er us hover!

There’s a bliss beyond all that the minstrel has told,

When two, that are link’d in one heavenly tie,

With heart never changing, and brow never cold,

Love on thro’ all ills, and love on till they die.

One hour of a passion so sacred is worth

Whole ages of heartless and wandering bliss;

And oh! if there be an Elysium on earth,

It is this—it is this!

They may rail at this life—from the hour I began it,

I’ve found it a life full of kindness and bliss;

And, until they can show me some happier planet,

More social and bright, I’ll content me with this.

Thinkest thou

That I could live, and let thee go,

Who art my life itself?—no—no.

This narrow isthmus ’twixt two boundless seas,

The past, the future—two eternities.

Thou art, O God, the life and light

Of all this wondrous world we see;

Its glow by day, its smile by night,

Are but reflections caught from Thee!

Where’er we turn thy glories shine,

And all things fair and bright are thine!

Thou little know’st

What he can brave, who, born and nurst

In danger’s paths, has dared her worst!

Upon whose ear the signal-word

Of strife and death is hourly breaking;

Who sleeps with head upon the sword

His fever’d hand must grasp in waking.

’Tis not in fate to harm me,

While fate leaves thy love to me;

’Tis not in joy to charm me,

Unless that joy be shar’d with thee.

’Tis sweet to think that where’er we rove

We are sure to find something blissful and dear;

And that when we’re far from the lips we love,

We’ve but to make love to the lips we are near.

Weep on; and, as thy sorrows flow,

I’ll taste the luxury of woe.

Well—peace to thy heart, tho’ another’s it be;

And health to that cheek, tho’ it bloom not for me.

Wert thou all that I wish thee, great, glorious and free,

First flower of the earth, and first gem of the sea.

What would the rose with all her pride be worth,

Were there no sun to call her brightness forth?

When I remember all

The friends so link’d together,

I’ve seen around me fall,

Like leaves in wintry weather

I feel like one who treads alone

Some banquet hall deserted,

Whose lights are fled, whose garlands dead,

And all but he departed.

When time who steals our years away

Shall steal our pleasures too,

The mem’ry of the past will stay

And half our joys renew.

Where bastard Freedom waves

Her fustian flag in mockery over slaves.

While her laugh, full of life, without any control,

But the sweet one of gracefulness, rung from her soul;

And where it most sparkled, no glance could discover

In lips, cheek or eyes, for it brightened all over—

Like any fair lake that the breeze was upon,

When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun.

Whose hearts in every thought are one,

Whose voices utter the same wills,

Answering, as echo doth, some tone

Of fairy music ’mong the hills,

So like itself we seek in vain

Which is the echo; which the strain.

With all my soul, then let us part,

Since both are anxious to be free;

And I will send you home your heart,

If you will send back mine to me!

With what a deep devotedness of woe

I wept thy absence—o’er and o’er again

Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain,

And memory, like a drop that, night and day,

Falls cold and ceaseless, wore my heart away!

Yes—rather plunge me back in pagan night,

And take my chance with Socrates for bliss,

Than be the Christian of a faith like this,

Which builds on heavenly cant its earthly sway,

And in a convert mourns to lose a prey.

Yet, no—not words, for they

But half can tell love’s feeling;

Sweet flowers alone can say

What passion fears revealing:

A once bright rose’s wither’d leaf,

A tow’ring lily broken—

Oh, these may paint a grief

No words could e’er have spoken.

A philosopher being asked what was the first thing necessary to win the love of a woman, answered, Opportunity!

Allowing everything that can be claimed for the superior patience and self-command of women, still the main solution of their enduring pain better than men is their having less physical sensibility.

Assurance never failed to get admission into the houses of the great.

But the trail of the serpent is over them all.

Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.

Eyes of most unholy blue!

Gradual as the snow, at heaven’s breath, melts off and shows the azure flowers beneath, her lids unclosed, and the bright eyes were seen.

Here bring your wounded hearts, here tell your anguish: earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal.

How dear to my soul is the mild twilight hour!

Humility—that low, sweet root from which all heavenly virtues shoot.

It is quite cruel that a poet cannot wander through his regions of enchantment without having a critic forever, like the Old Man of the Sea, upon his back.

It was whispered balm, it was sunshine spoken!

Like the plants that throw their fragrance from the wounded part, breathe sweetness out of woe.

Lips in whose rosy labyrinth, when she smiled, the soul was lost.

Music!—O, how faint, how weak, language fades before thy spell!

Such eyes as may have looked from heaven, but never were raised to it before!

Sweet flowers alone can say what passion fears revealing.

That star on life’s tremulous ocean.

The cheek may be tinged with a warm sunny smile, though the cold heart to ruin runs darkly the while.

The fresh and buoyant sense of being that bounds in youth’s yet careless breast.

The heart that is soonest awake to the flowers is always the first to be touched by the thorns.

There are dreadful punishments enacted against thieves; but it were much better to make such good provisions, by which every man might be put in a method how to live, and so to be preserved from the fatal necessity of stealing and dying for it.

There is nothing half so sweet in life as love’s young dream.

There’s nothing true but heaven.

Thinking of thee, still thee, till thought grew pain.

This moment is a flower too fair and brief.

This narrow isthmus ’twixt two boundless seas.

Though an angel should write, still ’tis devils must print.

Though it is pleasant weaving nets, it is wiser to make cages.

Through the shadowy past, like a tomb-searcher, memory ran, lifting each shroud that time had cast o’er buried hopes.

’Tis the last rose of summer, left blooming alone.

To sigh, yet feel no pain.

To-morrow the dreams and flowers will fade.

What a power there is in innocence! whose very helplessness is its safeguard: in whose presence even passion himself stands abashed, and stands worshipper at the very altar he came to despoil.

When pleasure, like the midnight flower that scorns the eye of vulgar light, begins to bloom for sons of night and maids who love the moon.

Where there is room in the heart, there is always room in the house.

Whose every little ringlet thrilled, as if with soul and passion filled!

Whose wit in the combat, gentle as bright, ne’er carried a heart-stain away on its blade.

Without one glimpse of reason or of heaven.

Young roses kindled into thought.

Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD