Quotes
Quotes - Scott
'Tis an old tale, and often told; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, Of maiden true betray'd for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me!
Vengeance to God alone belongs; But, when I think of all my wrongs My blood is liquid flame!
For monarchs seldom sigh in vain.
I cannot tell how the truth may be; I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
O Caledonia! stern and wild, Meet nurse for a poetic child! Land of brown heath and shaggy wood, Land of the mountain and the flood, Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band, That knits me to thy rugged strand!
Within that awful volume lies The mystery of mysteries! Happiest they of human race, To whom God has granted grace To read, to fear, to hope, to pray, To lift the latch, and force the way: And better had they ne'er been born, Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
And let our barks across the pathless flood Hold different courses.
With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.
Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll, And vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole, Yet 'tis Thy voice, my God, that bids them fly, Thy arm directs those lightnings through the sky. Then let the good Thy mighty name revere, And hardened sinners Thy just vengeance fear.
I cannot tell how the truth may be; I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
Profan'd the God-given strength, and marr'd the lofty line.
The summer dawn's reflected hue To purple changed Lock Katrine blue, Mildly and soft the western breeze Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees, And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, Trembled but dimpled not for joy.
It [true love] is the secret sympathy, The silver link, the silken tie, Which heart to heart, and mind to mind In body and in soul can bind.
Television? The word is half Latin and half Greek. No good can come of it.
St. Leon raised his kindling eye, And lifts the sparkling cup on high; "I drink to one," he said, "Whose image never may depart, Deep graven on this grateful heart, Till memory be dead." . . . . St. Leon paused, as if he would Not breathe her name in careless mood Thus lightly to another; Then bent his noble head, as though To give the word the reverence due, And gently said, "My mother!"
Ah, County Guy, the hour is nigh, The sun has left the lea, The orange flower perfumes the bower, The breeze is on the sea.
Hard toil can roughen form and face, And want call quench the eye's bright grace.
We do that in our zeal our calmer moment would be afraid to answer.
