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"And thou art gone from earth, like some fair dream,
Beheld in slumber, leaving nought behind
But memory, to tell that thou hast been;

And there for evermore shall be enshrined.

"As ships that sail upon the boundless deep,

Yet leave no trace; or onwards in their flight,
As birds which cleave the blue and ambient air,
Leave no impress, and soon are lost to sight-

"So those who to eternity do pass,

Like shadows disappear, and nought remains
To tell us they have been, but aching hearts
And pallid traits which memory retains."


"Oh, wise was he, the first who taught
This lesson of observant thought,
That equal fates alone may dress
The bowers of nuptial happiness :

That never where ancestral pride
Inflames, or affluence rolls its tide,
Should love's ill-omened bond entwine
The offspring of an humble line."

To Sir Wm. Massy Stanley, Baronet, on receiving a present of woodcocks.

"At a season when dunning the mind with dread fills, You send me the only acceptable bills;


And their length, unlike others, no gloom can inspire,
Tho', like many long bills, they're consigned to the fire;
And we never discuss them unless with a toast,
Washed down by a bumper to Hoolen's good host."


Lines in pencilling in a common-place book of Lady Blessington.

"Ye gods, what is it that I see?

Oh, who a grandfather would be!
Behold the treasure-store of years,
Sole objects of my hopes and fears,
Collected from far distant lands,
Become a prey to vandal hands;
Rare manuscripts that none could read,
Symbols of each religious creed;
Missals with reddest colours bright,
Black-lettered tomes long shut from light;
Medals defaced, with scarce a trace
Of aught resembling human face;
All in chaotic ruin hurled,
The fragments of a by-gone world.
And you, unpitying girl, who knew
The mischief of this urchin crew,
How could you let them thus destroy,
What to collect did years employ?
Away, ye wicked elves!-ah me!
Who e'er a grandfather would be?"


"My heart is like a frozen fountain, over which the ice is too hard to allow of the stream beneath flowing with vigour, though enough of vitality remains to make the chilling rampart that divides its waters from light and air insupportable.


"A knowledge of the nothingless of life is seldom attained except by those of superior minds."

"The first heavy affliction that falls on us, rends the veil of life, and lets us see all its darkness."

*This entry is in the early part of the Night Thoughts Book, dated 21st Oct. 1834.

Desperate is the grief of him whom prosperity has hardened, and who feels the first arrow of affliction strike at his heart, through the life of an object dearest to him on earth."

"The separation of death is less terrible than the moral divorce of two hearts which have loved, but have ceased to sympathize, with memory recalling what they once were to each other."

Religion converts despair, which destroys, into resignation which submits.

"Sorrow in its exaltation seemes to have an instinctive sympathy with the sufferings of others. Brissot observes, 'L'ame exaltée par la douleur se monte au diapason d'un autre ame blessée, aussi facilement que la violon qui, sans etre touché se met a l'acord de l'instrument qu'on fait vibrer loin de lui.'"

"How many errors do we confess to our Creator, which we dare not discover to the most fallible of our fellowcreatures !"

"Fatality is another name for misconduct."





LINES written by Walter Savage Landor to Lady Blessington :

"What language, let me think, is meet
well called the Marguerite.

For you,

The Tuscan has too weak a tone,

Too rough and rigid is our own;
The Latin-no-it will not do,
The Attic is alone for you."

Latin version of the above lines by Mr. Landor.
“Quonam carmine te alloquar decenter
Vero nomine dicta Margarita!
Sermo est durior Anglicanus: atqui
Tuscus displicet: est enim vigoris
Expers: aptior est quidem latinus
Atque non satis est mihi tibique
Te sermo Atticus unicè deceret."


"February 28, 1848.

"The earthquake that has shaken all Italy and Sicily, has alone been able to shake a few cindery verses out of me. Yesterday there was glorious intelligence from France, and you will find, on the other side, the effect it produced on me within the hour. No! there will not be room for it. Here are some lines which I wrote when I was rather a younger man-date them fifty years back.

"Ever yours most truly,

"The fault is not mine if I love you too much-
I lov'd you too little, too long;

Such ever your graces, your tenderness such,
The music so sweet of your tongue.

"The time is now coming, when Love must be gone,
Though he never abandoned me yet;

Acknowledge our friendship, our passion disown,
Not even our follies forget."

Lines of Walter Savage Landor, on a postscript of a letter from Florence, dated April 25, 1835:

"Out of thy books, O Beauty! I had been

For many a year,

Till she who reigns on earth thy lawful queen,
Replaced me there."

In one of the letters addressed to Lady Blessington, are the following beautiful lines, written by W. Savage Landor, after perusing a passage in a letter :

"I have not forgotten your favourite old tune; will you hear it ?" "Come sprinkle me that music on the breast,

Bring me the varied colours into light,

That now obscurely on its marble rest;

Shew me its flowers and figures fresh and bright.

"Waked at thy voice and touch, again the chords
Restore what envious years had moved away;

Restore the glowing cheeks, the tender words,
Youth's vernal noon, and Pleasure's summer day."


"Since in the terrace-bower we sate,

While Arno gleam❜d below,

And over sylvan Massa late

Hung Cynthia's slender bow,

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