Walter Scott Quotes - Page 11

Never was flattery lost on a poet's ear; a simple race, they waste their toil for the vain tribute of a smile.

Those who follow the banners oreason are like the well-disciplined battalions which, wearing a more sober uniform and making a less dazzling show than the light troops commanded by imagination, enjoy more safety, and even more honor, in the conflicts ohuman life.

Jock, when ye hae naething else to do, ye may be aye sticking in a tree; it will be growing, Jock, when ye 're sleeping.

'Tis an old tale, and often told; But did my fate and wish agree, Ne'er had been read, in story old, Of maiden true betray'd for gold, That loved, or was avenged, like me!

The summer dawn's reflected hue To purple changed Lock Katrine blue, Mildly and soft the western breeze Just kiss'd the lake, just stirr'd the trees, And the pleased lake, like maiden coy, Trembled but dimpled not for joy.

A ruin should always be protected but never repaired - thus may we witness full the lingering legacies of the past.

In the lost battle, Borne down by the flying, Where mingles war's rattle With groans of the dying.

I am she, O most bucolical juvenal, under whose charge are placed the milky mothers of the herd.

Saint George and the Dragon!-Bonny Saint George for Merry England!-The castle is won!

I will but confess the sins of my green cloak to my grey friar's frock, and all shall be well again.

No scene of mortal life but teems with mortal woe.

Each must drain His share of pleasure, share of pain.

Independently of the curious circumstance that such tales should be found existing in very different countries and languages, which augurs a greater poverty of human invention than we would have expected, there is also a sort of wild fairy interest in them, which makes me think them fully better adapted to awaken the imagination and soften the heart of childhood than the good-boy stories which have been in later years composed for them.

Where, where was Roderick then? One blast upon his bugle horn Were worth a thousand men.

Respect was mingled with surprise, And the stern joy which warriors feel In foemen worthy of their steel.

Dear to me is my bonnie white steed; Oft has he helped me at pinch of need.

Where shall the lover rest, Whom the fates sever From his true maiden's breast, Parted for ever? Where, through groves deep and high, Sounds the far billow, Where early violets die, Under the willow.

Land of my sires! what mortal hand Can e'er untie the filial band That knits me to thy rugged strand!

Sordid selfishness doth contract and narrow our benevolence, and cause us, like serpents, to infold ourselves within ourselves, and to turn out our stings to the entire world besides.

Methinks I will not die quite happy without having seen something of that Rome of which I have read so much.

And love is loveliest when embalm'd in tears.

"Charge, Chester, charge! on, Stanley, on!" Were the last words of Marmion.

Her blue eyes sought the west afar, For lovers love the western star.

O come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, Or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lochinvar?

In man's most dark extremity Oft succour dawns from Heaven.