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Love! the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distilled.

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
Life
Cups
Paradise
Bitter
Gift
Sweet
Heaven
Choicest
Else
Distilled
Love
Surviving

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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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Tomorrow let us do or die!
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Oh, how hard it is to find The one just suited to our mind!
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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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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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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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O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair?
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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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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 though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.
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Where the Scriptures speak, we speak where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.
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The smaller your reality, the more convinced you are that you know everything.
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What millions died that Caesar might be great!
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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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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 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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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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A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.
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One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.
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