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The cheerful Sabbath bells, wherever heard, Strike pleasant on the sense, most like the voice Of one, who from the far-off hills proclaims Tidings of good to Zion.

Charles Lamb

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Charles Lamb
Age: 59 †
Born: 1775
Born: February 10
Died: 1834
Died: December 27
Literary Critic
Playwright
Poet
Writer
London
England
Like
Hills
Wherever
Proclaims
Pleasant
Zion
Strikes
Tidings
Heard
Sabbath
Voice
Cheerful
Sense
Bells
Good
Strike

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Books of quick interest, that hurry on for incidents are for the eye to glide over only. It will not do to read them out. I could never listen to even the better kind of modern novels without extreme irksomeness.
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Rags, which are the reproach of poverty, are the beggar's robes, and graceful insignia of his profession, his tenure, his full dress, the suit in which he is expected to show himself in public.
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I know that a sweet child is the sweetest thing in nature, not even excepting the delicate creatures which bear them.
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Opinions is a species of property - I am always desirous of sharing.
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It is with some violation of the imagination that we conceive of an actor belonging to the relations of private life, so closely do we identify these persons in our mind with the characters which they assume upon the stage.
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I have sat through an Italian opera, til, for sheer pain, and inexplicable anguish, I have rushed out into the noisiest places of the crowded street, to solace myself with sounds which I was not obliged to follow and get rid of the distracting torment of endless, fruitless, barren attention!
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The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever.
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A pun is not bound by the laws which limit nicer wit. It is a pistol let off at the ear not a feather to tickle the intellect.
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The vices of some men are magnificent.
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The true poet dreams being awake.
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Gone before To that unknown and silent shore.
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No eye to watch, and no tongue to wound us, All earth forgot, and all heaven around us.
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How convalescence shrinks a man back to his pristine stature! where is now the space, which he occupied so lately, in his own, in the family's eye?
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A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying
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It is well if the good man himself does not feel his devotions a little clouded, those foggy sensuous steams mingling with and polluting the pure altar surface.
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I like you and your book, ingenious Hone! In whose capacious all-embracing leaves The very marrow of tradition 's shown And all that history, much that fiction weaves.
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You look wise, pray correct that error.
Charles Lamb
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A book reads the better which is our own, and has been so long known to us, that we know the topography of its blots, and dog's ears, and can trace the dirt in it to having read it at tea with buttered muffins.
Charles Lamb
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Not if I know myself at all.
Charles Lamb
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In some respects the better a book is, the less it demands from the binding.
Charles Lamb