C.N. Douglas, comp. Forty Thousand Quotations: Prose and Poetical. 1917.

Mrs. Norton

My beautiful! my beautiful!

That standest meekly by

With thy proudly arch’d and glossy neck,

And dark and fiery eye;—

The stranger hath thy bridle-rein—

Thy master hath his gold—

Fleet-limb’d and beautiful, farewell!

Thou ’rt sold, my steed—thou ’rt sold!

O Twilight! spirit that dost render birth

To dim enchantments—melting heaven to earth—

Leaving on craggy hills and running streams

A softness like the atmosphere of dreams.

Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth,

What joy is welcom’d like a new-born child?

See the enfranchised bird, who wildly springs,

With a keen sparkle in his glowing eye

And a strong effort in his quivering wings,

Up to the blue vault of the happy sky.

Silent companions of the lonely hour,

Friends, who can alter or forsake,

Who for inconstant roving have no power,

And all neglect, perforce, must calmly take.

Sweet is the image of the brooding dove!

Holy as heaven a mother’s tender love!

The love of many prayers, and many tears,

Which changes not with dim declining years—

The only love, which, on this teeming earth,

Asks no return for passion’s wayward birth.

There lay the warrior and the son of song,

And there—in silence till the judgment day—

The orator, whose all-persuading tongue

Had mov’d the nations with resistless sway.

Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy!

Which sweet from childhood’s rosy lip resoundeth;

Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy,

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth.

They serve God well,

Who serve his creatures.

Yet it may be more lofty courage dwells

In one weak heart which braves an adverse fate,

Than his whose ardent soul indignant swells,

Warm’d by the fight, or cheer’d through high debate.

A child’s eyes, those clear wells of undefiled thought—what on earth can be more beautiful? Full of hope, love and curiosity, they meet your own. In prayer, how earnest; in joy, how sparkling; in sympathy, how tender! The man who never tried the companionship of a little child has carelessly passed by one of the great pleasures of life, as one passes a rare flower without plucking it or knowing its value.

Faint and sweet thy light falls round the peasant’s homeward feet.

Fair, fleeting sister of the mournful night.

Fragile beginnings of a mighty end.

God made all pleasures innocent.

I can ensure a melancholy man, but not a melancholy child; the former, in whatever slough he may sink, can raise his eyes either to the kingdom of reason or of hope; but, the little child is entirely absorbed and weighed down by one black poison-drop of the present.

Not for herself was woman first created, nor yet to be man’s idol, but his mate.

Of all the joys that brighten suffering earth, what joy is welcomed like a new-born child?

Old Time, who changes all below to wean men gently for the grave.

The only love which on this teeming earth asks no return for passion’s wayward birth.

They serve God well who serve His creatures.

Until I truly loved, I was alone.

Weep not for him that dieth; for he sleeps, and is at rest.

Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD