When Bishop Berkeley said "there was no matter,"

And proved it, 't was no matter what he said.1

Don Juan. Canto xi. Stanza 1.

And after all, what is a lie? "T is but
The truth in masquerade.

'Tis strange the mind, that very fiery particle,
Should let itself be snuff'd out by an article.

Stanza 37.

Of all tales 't is the saddest,

Because it makes us smile.

Stanza 59.

and more sad,

Canto xiii. Stanza 9.

Stanza 11.

Cervantes smil'd Spain's chivalry away.

Society is now one polish'd horde,

Formed of two mighty tribes, the Bores and Bored.

All human history attests

That happiness for man, the hungry sinner!-
Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.2

Stunza 95.

Stanza 99.

'Tis strange, but true; for truth is always strange, Stranger than fiction.

--

Canto xiv. Stanza 101.

The Devil hath not, in all his quiver's choice,
An arrow for the heart like a sweet voice.

Canto xv. Stanza 13.

A lovely being, scarcely formed or moulded,
A rose with all its sweetest leaves yet folded.

Friendship is Love without his wings.

Stanza 43.

L'Amitié est l'Amour sans Ailes.

I awoke one morning and found myself famous. Memoranda from his Life, by Moore, Chap. xiv.

1 What is mind? No matter. What is matter? Never mind. - T. H. KEY (once Head Master of University College School). On the authority of F. J. Furnivall.

2 For a man seldom thinks with more earnestness of anything than he does of his dinner. Piozzi: Anecdotes of Samuel Johnson, p. 149.

The best of prophets of the future is the past.

Letter, Jan. 28, 1821.

What say you to such a supper with such a woman? 1

Note to a Letter on Bowles's Strictures.

WILLIAM KNOX. 1789-1825.

Oh why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a fast-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passes from life to his rest in the grave."

ALFRED BUNN. 1790-1860.

I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,

Mortality.8

With vassals and serfs at my side.

Song.

The light of other days' is faded,

And all their glories past.

Song.

The heart bowed down by weight of woe
To weakest hope will cling.

Song.

1 See Lady Montagu, page 350.

of your sires!

Marco Bozzaris.

2 Abraham Lincoln was very fond of repeating these lines.

From Knox's "Songs of Israel," 1824.

4 See Moore, page 523.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death i

Come to the mother's, when she feels
For the first time her first-born's breath!
Come when the blessed seals
That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke!
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm!
Come when the heart beats high and warm,

With banquet song, and dance, and wine!
And thou art terrible!—the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know or dream or fear
Of agony are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,

Marco Bozzaria,

Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word;
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.

One of the few, the immortal names,
That were not born to die.

Such graves as his are pilgrim shrines,
Shrines to no code or creed confined, -
The Delphian vales, the Palestines,

The Meccas of the mind.

Green be the turf above thee,

Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee,1
Nor named thee but to praise.

Ibid

Ibid

Burns

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.

There is an evening twilight of the heart,

When its wild passion-waves are lulled to rest.

1 See Rogers, page 455.

Twilight.

They love their land because it is their own,
And scorn to give aught other reason why;
Would shake hands with a king upon his throne,
And think it kindness to his Majesty.

This bank-note world.

Lord Stafford mines for coal and salt,
The Duke of Norfolk deals in malt,
The Douglas in red herrings.

Connecticut.

Alnwick Castle.

Ibid.

CHARLES WOLFE. 1791-1823.

Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note,
As his corse to the rampart we hurried.

The Burial of Sir John Moore.

But he lay like a warrior taking his rest,
With his martial cloak around him.

Slowly and sadly we laid him down,

From the field of his fame fresh and gory;
We carved not a line, and we raised not a stone,
But we left him alone with his glory.

If I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;

But I forgot, when by thy side,

That thou couldst mortal be.

Yet there was round thee such a dawn

Of light, ne'er seen before,

As fancy never could have drawn,

And never can restore.

Go, forget me! why should sorrow
O'er that brow a shadow fling?
Go, forget me, and to-morrow
Brightly smile and sweetly sing!
Smile, though I shall not be near thee;
Sing, though I shall never hear thee!

Ibid.

Ibid.

To Mary.

Ibid.

Go, forget me!

HENRY HART MILMAN. 1791-1868.

And the cold marble leapt to life a god.

The Belvedere Apollo.

Too fair to worship, too divine to love.

Ibid.

CHARLES SPRAGUE. 1791-1875.

Lo where the stage, the poor, degraded stage,
Holds its warped mirror to a gaping age.

Through life's dark road his sordid way he wends,
An incarnation of fat dividends.

Behold! in Liberty's unclouded blaze

Curiosity.

Ibid.

We lift our heads, a race of other days.

Centennial Ode. Stanza 22.

Yes, social friend, I love thee well,

In learned doctors' spite;
Thy clouds all other clouds dispel,
And lap me in delight.

To my Cigar.

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 1792-1822.

Then black despair,

The shadow of a starless night, was thrown
Over the world in which I moved alone.

The Revolt of Islam. Dedication, Stanza 6.

With hue like that when some great painter dips
His pencil in the gloom of earthquake and eclipse.

The awful shadow of some unseen Power
Floats, tho' unseen, amongst us.

Canto v. Stanza 23

Hymn to Intellectual Beauty.