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He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.

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
Gratitude
Felt
Another
Woe
Philanthropy
Scorn

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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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Better be courted and jilted Than never be courted at all.
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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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One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.
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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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Love! the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distilled.
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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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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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A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.
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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 smaller your reality, the more convinced you are that you know everything.
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Where the Scriptures speak, we speak where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.
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Fundamental assumptions in general and scientific assumptions in particular are so hard to overturn because they are based on belief. Beliefs are so hard to overcome because they are irrational and therefore do not yield to logical argument.
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The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.
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I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.
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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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Ye mariners of England! That guard our native seas Whose flag has braved a thousand years, The battle and the breeze!
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On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was nigh, No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I, No harp like my own could so cheerily play, And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray.
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The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.
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