Walter Scott (1771 – 1832)
Prolific Scottish historical novelist and poet popular throughout Europe during his time.
There is yet spirit in him, were it well directed- but, like the Greek fire, it burns whatever approaches it.
Oh, poverty parts good company.
Some feelings are to mortals given
With less of earth in them than heaven;
And if there be a human tear
From passion's dross refined and clear,
A tear so limpid and so meek
It would not stain an angel's cheek,
'Tis that which pious fathers shed
Upon a duteous daughter's head!
Who o'er the herd would wish to reign,
Fantastic, fickle, fierce, and vain!
Vain as the leaf upon the stream,
And fickle as a changeful dream;
Fantastic as a woman's mood,
And fierce as Frenzy's fever'd blood.
Thou many-headed monster thing,
Oh who would wish to be thy king!
If you keep a thing seven years, you are sure to find a use for it.
Along thy wild and willow'd shore.
I cannot tell how the truth may be;
I say the tale as 'twas said to me.
In peace, Love tunes the shepherd's reed;
In war, he mounts the warrior's steed;
In halls, in gay attire is seen;
In hamlets, dances on the green.
Love rules the court, the camp, the grove,
And men below, and saints above;
For love is heaven, and heaven is love.
Her blue eyes sought the west afar,
For lovers love the western star.
Randolph, thy wreath has lost a rose.
The way was long, the wind was cold,
The Minstrel was infirm and old;
His withered cheek, and tresses gray,
Seemed to have known a better day.
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea.
For ne'er
Was flattery lost on poet's ear:
A simple race! they waste their toil
For the vain tribute of a smile.
And better had they ne'er been born,
Who read to doubt, or read to scorn.
It's no fish ye're buying, it's men's lives.
November’s sky is chill and drear,
November’s leaf is red and sear.
Where, where was Roderick then!
One blast upon his bugle-horn
Were worth a thousand men.
Spur not an unbroken horse; put not your plowshare too deep into new land.
To all, to each, a fair good-night,
And pleasing dreams, and slumbers light!
O, Woman! in our hours of ease,
Uncertain, coy, and hard to please,
And variable as the shade
By the light quivering aspen made;
When pain and anguish wring the brow,
A ministering angel thou!