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A stoic of the woods,--a man without a tear.

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
Stoic
Tear
Woods
Tears
Without
Men

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Better be courted and jilted Than never be courted at all.
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What though my winged hours of bliss have been, Like angel visits, few and far between.
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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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One moment may with bliss repay Unnumbered hours of pain.
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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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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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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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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 prophet's mantle, ere his flight began, Dropt on the world--a sacred gift to man.
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I'll meet the raging of the skies, but not an angry father.
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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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What millions died that Caesar might be great!
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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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Who hail thee, Man! the pilgrim of the day, spouse of the worm, and brother of the clay.
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Tomorrow let us do or die!
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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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Love! the surviving gift of Heaven, The choicest sweet of Paradise, In life's else bitter cup distilled.
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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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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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