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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.

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
Asks
Prepare
Art
Fill
Part
Storm
Thou
Sky
Triumphal
Proud
Arch
Philosophy
Arches
Teach
Storms

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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 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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The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.
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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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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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The smaller your reality, the more convinced you are that you know everything.
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Tomorrow let us do or die!
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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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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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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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Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.
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A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.
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The popularity of that baby-faced boy, who possessed not even the elements of a good actor, was a hallucination in the public mind, and a disgrace to our theatrical history.
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For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
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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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I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.
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What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.
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What millions died that Caesar might be great!
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He scorn'd his own, who felt another's woe.
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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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