Edward Bulwer-Lytton (1803 – 1873)
English novelist, playwright, and politician.
The brilliant chief, irregularly great,
Frank, haughty, rash,— the Rupert of debate!
Every man has his price,
I will bribe left and right.
No weapon that slays
Its victim so surely (if well aimed) as praise.
Two lives that once part are as ships that divide
When, moment on moment, there rushes between
The one and the other a sea;—
Ah, never can fall from the days that have been
A gleam on the years that shall be!
When stars are in the quiet skies,
Then most I pine for thee;
Bend on me then thy tender eyes,
As stars look on the sea.
Rank is a great beautifier.
Happy is the man who hath never known what it is to taste of fame — to have it is a purgatory, to want it is a hell.
It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents — except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind which swept up the streets (for it is in London that our scene lies), rattling along the housetops, and fiercely agitating the scanty flame of the lamps that struggled against the darkness.