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WASHINGTON IRVING.

1783-1859.

Free-livers on a small scale, who are prodigal within the compass of a guinea.

The Stout Gentleman.

The Almighty Dollar, that great object of universal devotion throughout our land, seems to have no genuine devotees in these peculiar villages. The Creole Village.

OLIVER H. PERRY. 1785-1820. We have met the enemy, and they are ours. Letter to General Harrison, dated, "United States Brig Niagara. Off the Western Sisters. Sept. 10, 1813. 4 P.M."

SIR W. F. P. NAPIER.

1785-1860.

Napoleon's troops fought in bright fields, where every helmet caught some beams of glory, but the British soldier conquered under the cool shade of aristocracy; no honours awaited his daring, no despatch gave his name to the applauses of his countrymen; his life of danger and hardship was uncheered by hope, his death unnoticed.

Peninsular War. Vol. ii. Book xi. Ch. 3. 1810.

LORD BYRON. 1788-1824.

Farewell! if ever fondest prayer

For other's weal avail'd on high,
Mine will not all be lost in air,

But waft thy name beyond the sky.
Farewell! if ever.

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Fools are my theme, let satire be my song. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 6.

'T is pleasant, sure, to see one's name in print; A book's a book, although there's nothing in 't.

Line 51.

With just enough of learning to misquote.

As soon

Line 66.

Seek roses in December,-ice in June;
Hope constancy in wind, or corn in chaff,
Believe a woman, or an epitaph,

Or any other thing that's false, before
You trust in critics.

Line 75.

Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 326.

O Amos Cottle! Phoebus! what a name ! Line 399.

So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart.1

Line 826.

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact, in Virtue's name, let Crabbe attest:
Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.
Line 839.

Maid of Athens, ere we part,

Give, oh, give me back my heart!

Maid of Athens.

Had sighed to many, though he loved but one. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. St. 5.

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy Canto i. St. 7.

men.

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare,
And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might
despair.
Canto i. St. 9.

1 Compare Waller, To a Lady singing a Song of his Composing.

Such partings break the heart they fondly hope

to heal.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage.

Might shake the saintship of an

Canto i. St. 10.

anchorite.

Canto i. St. II.

Adieu, adieu! my native shore

Fades o'er the waters blue.

Canto i. St. 13.

My native land-good night!

Canto i. St. 13.

O Christ! it is a goodly sight to see

What Heaven hath done for this delicious land. Canto i. St. 15.

In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell. Canto i. St. 20.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
Canto i. St. 40.

Still from the fount of Joy's delicious springs
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom

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1 Medio de fonte leporum

Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat.

Lucretius, iv. 1. 1133.

2 "War even to the knife," was the reply of Palafox, the governor of Saragoza, when summoned to surrender by the French, who besieged that city in 1808.

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things

that were.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. St. 2.

A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

Canto ii. St. 2.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. Canto ii. St. 2.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.1 Canto ii. St. 6.

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be

a boy?

Canto ii. St. 23.

None are so desolate but something dear,

Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd.

Canto ii. St. 24.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men, To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tired denizen, With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.

Canto ii. St. 26.

Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel.

Canto ii. St. 28.

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth!

Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great! Canto ii. St. 73.

Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not,

Who would be free, themselves must strike the

blow?

Canto ii. St. 76.

1 And keeps that palace of the soul. - Waller, Of Tea.

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