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

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For Beauty's tears are lovelier than her smile.
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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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What millions died that Caesar might be great!
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The proud, the cold untroubled heart of stone, that never mused on sorrow but its own.
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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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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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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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Our land, the first garden of liberty's tree-- It has been, and shall be, the land of the free.
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Where the Scriptures speak, we speak where the Scriptures are silent, we are silent.
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The patriot's blood is the seed of Freedom's tree.
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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 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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O star-eyed Science, hast thou wander'd there, To waft us home the message of despair?
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The smaller your reality, the more convinced you are that you know everything.
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One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.
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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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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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I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.
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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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