Quotes
Quotes - Scott
Some feelings are to mortals given, With less of earth in them than heaven.
A foot more light, a step more true, Ne'er from the heath-flower dashed the dew.
Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.
Ah, well, the truth is always one thing, but in a way it's the other thing, the gossip, that counts. It shows where people's hearts lie.
Jock, when he hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye're sleeping.
Haste, holy Friar, Haste, ere the sinner shall expire! Of all his guilt let him be shriven, And smooth his path from earth to heaven!
In man's most dark extremity Oft succor dawns from Heaven.
Oh, what a tangled web we weave, When first we practice to deceive! - Marmion.
And honeysuckle loved to crawl Up the low crag and ruin'd wall.
One hour of life, crowded to the full with glorious action, and filled with noble risks, is worth whole years of those mean observances of paltry decorum.
In listening mood she seemed to stand, The guardian Naiad of the strand.
Like the dew on the mountain, Like the foam on the river, Like the bubble on the fountain, Thou are gone, and for ever!
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land! Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd, As home his footsteps he hath turn'd, From wandering on a foreign strand!
Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!
My foot is on my native heath, and my name is MacGregor.
Forward and frolic glee was there, The will to do, the soul to dare.
Well, then--our course is chosen--spread the sail-- Heave oft the lead, and mark the soundings well-- Look to the helm, good master--many a shoal Marks this stern coast, and rocks, where sits the Siren Who, like ambition, lures men to their ruin.
Necessity--thou best of peacemakers, As well as surest prompter of invention.
Where's the coward that would not dare To fight for such a land?
Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land!
Delightful praise!--like summer rose, That brighter in the dew-drop glows, The bashful maiden's cheek appear'd, For Douglas spoke, and Malcolm heard.
What skilful limner e'er would choose To paint the rainbow's varying hues, Unless to mortal it were given To dip his brush in dyes of heaven?
High minds, of native pride and force, Most deeply feel thy pangs, Remorse; Fear, for their scourge, means villains have, Thou art the torturer of the brave!
But with the morning cool repentance came.
Contentious fierce, Ardent, and dire, spring from no petty cause.
