J.W. Lord Quotes

Sleep hath its own world, and the wide realm of wild reality.

The sight of blood to crowds begets the thirst of more, As the first wine-cup leads to the long revel.

I die but first I have possessed, And come what may, I have been blessed.

Then, fare thee well, deceitful Maid!

Parting day Dies like the dolphin, whom each pang imbues With a new colour as it gasps away, The last still loveliest, till-'t is gone, and all is gray.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

Physicians mend or end us, Secundum artem; but although we sneer - In health - when ill we call them to attend us, Without the least propensity to jeer

[Armenian] is a rich language, however, and would amply repay any one the trouble of learning it.

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.

Italia! O Italia! thou who hast The fatal gift of beauty.

Poetry should only occupy the idle.

The cold, the changed, perchance the dead, anew, The mourn'd, the loved, the lost,-too many, yet how few!

Grief is fantastical, and loves the dead, And the apparel of the grave.

And wrinkles, the damned democrats, won't flatter.

Accursed be the city where the laws would stifle nature's!

There is no passion, more spectral or fantastical than hate, not even its opposite, love, so peoples air, with phantoms, as this madness of the heart.

Here's a sigh to those who love me,And a smile to those who hate;And, whatever sky's above me,Here's a heart for every fate.

Marriage, from love, like vinegar from wine-- A sad, sour sober beverage--by time Is sharpened from its high celestial flavor Down to a very homely household savor.

He was a man of his times. with one virtue and a thousand crimes. (The Corsair)

'Twas strange that one so young should thus concern His brain about the action of the sky; If you think 'twas philosophy that this did, I can't help thinking puberty assisted.

But mighty Nature bounds as from her birth; The sun is in the heavens, and life on earth: Flowers in the valley, splendor in the beam, Health on the gale, and freshness in the stream.

In itself a thought, a slumbering thought is capable of years; and curdles a long life into one hour.

My altars are the mountains and the ocean.

Think'st thou existence doth depend on time? It doth; but actions are our epochs.

But every fool describes, in these bright days, His wondrous journey to some foreign court, And spawns his quarto, and demands your praise,-- Death to his publisher, to him 'tis sport.

I cannot conceive why people will always mix up my own character and opinions with those of the imaginary beings which, as a poet, I have the right and liberty to draw.

Fills The air around with beauty.

I loved my country, and I hated him.

I am the very slave of circumstance And impulse -- borne away with every breath!

In hope to merit heaven by making earth a hell.

Send me no more reviews of any kind. I will read no more of evil or good in that line. Walter Scott has not read a review of himself for thirteen years .

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.

Oh, Mirth and Innocence! Oh, Milk and Water! Ye happy mixture of more happy days!

Ah, happy years! once more who would not be a boy?

Fill high the cup with Samian wine!

The heart ran o'er With silent worship of the great of old!-- The dead, but sceptred sovereigns, who still rule Our spirits from their urns.

Do proper homage to thine idol's eyes; But no too humbly, or she will despise Thee and thy suit, though told in moving tropes: Disguise even tenderness if thou art wise.

Retirement accords with the tone of my mind; I will not descend to a world I despise.

And angling too, that solitary vice, What Izaak Walton sings or says: The quaint, old, cruel coxcomb, in his gullet Should have a hook, and a small trout to pull it.

To what gulfs A single deviation from the track Of human duties leads even those who claim The homage of mankind as their born due, And find it, till they forfeit it themselves!

The Niobe of nations! there she stands.

Are not the mountains, waves, and skies as much a part of me, as I of them?

Kill a man's family, and he may brook it, But keep your hands out of his breeches' pocket.

Perhaps the early grave Which men weep over may be meant to save.

There's not a sea the passenger e'er pukes in, Turns up more dangerous breakers than the Euxine.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

Then rose from sea to sky the wild farewell Then shriek'd the timid, and stood still the brave, Then some leap'd overboard with fearful yell, As eager to anticipate their grave.

Oh! too convincing--dangerously dear-- In woman's eye the unanswerable tear! That weapon of her weakness she can wield, To save, subdue--at once her spear and shield.

This is to be along; this, this is solitude!

And those who saw, it did surprise, Such drops could fall from human eyes.