Look in thy heart and write.
The great and good do not die even in this world. Embalmed in books, their spirits walk abroad. The book is a living voice. It is an intellect to which one still listens.
Ah, ye knights of the pen! May honour be your shield, and truth tip your lances! Be gentle to all gentle people. Be modest to women. Be tender to children. And as for the Ogre Humbug, out sword, and have at him!
What the devil does the plot signify, except to bring in fine things?
George Villiers—The Rehearsal.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 51
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>In every author let us distinguish the man from his works.
Voltaire—A Philosophical Dictionary. Poets.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 51
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>But you're our particular author, you're our patriot and our friend,
You're the poet of the cuss-word an' the swear.
Edgar Wallace—Tommy to his Laureate. (R. Kipling)
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>So must the writer, whose productions should
Take with the vulgar, be of vulgar mould.
Edmund Waller—Epistle to Mr. Killegrew.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 51
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Smooth verse, inspired by no unlettered Muse.
| author = Wordsworth
| work = Excursion. V. 262 (Knight's ed.).
| seealso = (See also {{sc|Gray)
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>This dull product of a scoffer's pen.
| author = Wordsworth
| work = Excursion. Bk. II.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 51
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Some write, confin'd by physic; some, by debt;
Some, for 'tis Sunday; some, because 'tis wet;
Another writes because his father writ,
And proves himself a bastard by his wit.
Young—Epistles to Mr. Pope. Ep. I. L. 75.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 51
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>An author! 'tis a venerable name!
How few deserve it, and what numbers claim!
Unbless'd with sense above their peers refined,
Who shall stand up dictators to mankind?
Nay, who dare shine, if not in virtue's cause?
That sole proprietor of just applause.
Young—Epistles to Mr. Pope. Ep. II. From Oxford. L. 15.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 51
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>For who can write so fast as men run mad?
Young—Lane of Fame. Satire I. L. 286.
| note =
| topic =
| page = 51
}}
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>Some future strain, in which the muse shall tell
How science dwindles, and how volumes swell.
How commentators each dark passage shun,
And hold their farthing candle to the sun.
Young—Love of Fame. Satire VII. L. 95.
| seealso = (See also {{sc|Byron)
{{Hoyt quote
| num =
| text = <poem>And then, exulting in their taper, cry, "Behold the Sun;" and, Indian-like, adore.
Young—Night Thoughts. Night II.
AUTUMN
Now Autumn's fire burns slowly along the woods,
And day by day the dead leaves fall and melt,
And night by night the monitory blast
Wails in the key-hole, telling how it pass'd
O'er empty fields, or upland solitudes,
Or grim wide wave; and now the power is felt
Of melancholy, tenderer in its moods
Than any joy indulgent Summer dealt.
O Autumn, laden with fruit, and stained
With the blood of the grape, pass not, but sit
Beneath my shady roof; there thou mayest rest
And tune thy jolly voice to my fresh pipe,
And all the daughters of the year shall dance!
Sing now the lusty song of fruits and flowers.
| author = William Blake
| work = To Autumn. St. 1.
Earth's crammed with heaven,
And every common bush afire with God;
And only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.
E. B. Browning—Aurora Leigh. Bk. VII.
| seealso = (See also Whittier)
Autumn wins you best by this, its mute
Appeal to sympathy for its decay.
Robert Browning—Paracelsus. Sc. 1.
Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson,
Yet our full-leaved willows are in their freshest green.
Such a kindly autumn, so mercifully dealing
With the growths of summer, I never yet have
seen.
Bryant—Third of November.
The melancholy days have come, the saddest of the year,
Of wailing winds, and naked woods, and meadows brown and sear.
Bryant—The Death of the Flowers.
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn,
Led yellow Autumn, wreath'd with nodding
corn.
Burns—Brigs of Ayr. L. 221.
The mellow autumn came, and with it came
The promised party, to enjoy its sweets.
The corn is cut, the manor full of game;
The pointer ranges, and the sportsman beats
In russet jacket;—lynx-like is his aim;
Full grows his bag, and wonderful his feats.
Ah, nutbrown partridges! Ah, brilliant pheasants!
And ah, ye poachers!—Tis no sport for peasants.
Byron—Dora Juan. Canto XIH. St. 75.
Yellow, mellow, ripened days,
Sheltered in a golden coating;
O'er the dreamy, listless haze,
White and dainty cloudlets floating;
Winking at the blushing trees,
And the sombre, furrowed fallow;
Smiling at the airy ease,
Of the southward flying swallow.
Sweet and smiling are thy ways,
Beauteous, golden Autumn days.
