Tell me not in mournful numbers,
"Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
—Longfellow.
Comal was the son of Albion, the chief of a hundred hills; his deer drank of a thousand streams; a thousand rocks replied to the voice of his dogs, his face was the mildness of youth, his hand the death of heroes.—Ossian.
Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lowered,
And the sentinel stars set their watch in the sky,
And thousands had sunk on the ground overpowered,
The weary to sleep, and the wounded to die.
—Campbell.
The place is little changed, Mary,
The day is bright as then,
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath warm on my cheek,
And I still keep listening for the words
You never more will speak.—Mrs Blackwood.
I have found Scotchmen always prospering and always thriving, often the confidential advisers of high positions, even of rulers of State; and although I myself am inclined to attribute much to organisation and to race, I am bound to say I never met a Scotchman yet, even if he was the confidential adviser of a pasha, who did not tell me that he owed his rise to his parish school.—Right Hon. Benjamin Disraeti.
