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What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.

Thomas Campbell

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Thomas Campbell
Age: 66 †
Born: 1777
Born: July 27
Died: 1844
Died: June 15
Journalist
Musicologist
Poet
Writer
Glasgow
Scotland
Angel
Though
Hours
Like
Winged
Visits
Angelic
Bliss

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The combat deepens. On, ye brave, Who rush to glory or the grave! Wave, Munich! all thy banners wave, And charge with all thy chivalry!
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Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind!
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Beauty's witching sway is now to me a star that's fallen-a dream that's passed away.
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Triumphal arch, that fill'st the sky When storms prepare to part, I ask not proud Philosophy To teach me what thou art.
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What millions died that Caesar might be great!
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O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair?
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For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
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The only thing that is fundamental (real) is consciousness itself all else is virtual- i.e., a result of an exchange of information within consciousness.
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He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.
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The prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.
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Tomorrow let us do or die!
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The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.
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On Linden, when the sun was low, All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, And dark as winter was the flow Of Iser, rolling rapidly.
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Never wedding, ever wooing, Still a lovelorn heart pursuing, Read you not the wrong you're doing In my cheek's pale hue? All my life with sorrow strewing Wed or cease to woo.
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Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.
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Where the Scriptures speak, we speak where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.
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Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.
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Love! the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distilled.
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An original something, dear maid, you would wish me to write but how shall I begin? For I'm sure I have not original in me, Excepting Original Sin.
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The meteor flag of England Shall yet terrific burn, Till danger's troubled night depart, And the star of peace return.
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