is consecrated and hallowed,—these very martyrs he has tried to rob of their peculiar honours.—Dr Andrew Thomson.
Knowest thou not this of old, since man was placed upon the earth, that the triumphing of the wicked is but short, and the joy of the hypocrite is but for a moment?[1]—Book of Job.
I, as usual in dreams, where of necessity we make ourselves central to every moment had the power, and yet had not the power, to decide.[1]—De Quincey.
For what I have done, imperfect as it is for want of health, and leisure to correct it, will be judged in after ages, and possible in the present, to be no dishonour to my native country, whose language and poetry would be esteemed abroad, if they were better understood.—Dryden.
But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearier,
Adown the glen rode armèd men.—Campbell.
The oak leviathans whose huge ribs make
Their clay creator the vain title take
Of lord of thee and arbiter of war—
These are thy toys.—Byron.
And once, alas! nor in a distant hour,
Another voice shall come from yonder tower;
When in dim chambers long black weeds are seen,
And weepings heard where only joy has been;
When by his children borne, and from his door
