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Call it not vain: they do not err Who say that when the poet dies Mute Nature mourns her worshipper, And celebrates his obsequies.

Walter Scott

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Walter Scott
Age: 61 †
Born: 1771
Born: August 15
Died: 1832
Died: September 21
Baronet Scott
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Edinburgh
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Walter Skott
Jedediah Cleishbotham
Laurence Templeton
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Sir Walter Scott
Sir Walter Scott
1st Baronet
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Profan'd the God-given strength, and marr'd the lofty line.
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Sleep in peace, and wake in joy.
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The happy combination of fortuitous circumstances.
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The lover's pleasure, like that of the hunter, is in the chase, and the brightest beauty loses half its merit, as the flower its perfume, when the willing hand can reach it too easily. There must be doubt there must be difficulty and danger.
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Commend me to sterling honesty though clad in rags.
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A rusted nail, placed near the faithful compass, Will sway it from the truth, and wreck the argosy.
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Who, noteless as the race from which he sprung, Saved others' names, but left his own unsung.
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England was merry England, when Old Christmas brought his sports again. 'Twas Christmas broach'd the mightiest ale 'Twas Christmas told the merriest tale A Christmas gambol oft could cheer The poor man's heart through half the year.
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Oh, Brignall banks are wild and fair, And Greta woods are green, And you may gather garlands there Would grace a summer's queen.
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Woman's faith and woman's trust, Write the characters in dust.
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Look not thou on beauty's charming Sit thou still when kings are arming Taste not when the wine-cup glistens Speak not when the people listens
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All live by seeming. The beggar begs with it, and the gay courtier Gains land and title, rank and rule, by seeming The clergy scorn it not, and the bold soldier Will eke with it his service.--All admit it, All practise it and he who is content With showing what he is, shall have small credit In church, or camp, or state.--So wags the world.
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Tears are the softening showers which cause the seed of heaven to spring up in the human heart.
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Loud o'er my head though awful thunders roll, And vivid lightnings flash from pole to pole, Yet 'tis Thy voice, my God, that bids them fly, Thy arm directs those lightnings through the sky. Then let the good Thy mighty name revere, And hardened sinners Thy just vengeance fear.
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Ridicule often checks what is absurd, and fully as often smothers that which is noble.
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Those who follow the banners oreason are like the well-disciplined battalions which, wearing a more sober uniform and making a less dazzling show than the light troops commanded by imagination, enjoy more safety, and even more honor, in the conflicts ohuman life.
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Faces that have charmed us the most escape us the soonest.
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Methinks I will not die quite happy without having seen something of that Rome of which I have read so much.
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Warriors! and where are warriors found, If not on martial Britain's ground? And who, when waked with note of fire, Love more than they the British lyre?
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Chess is a sad waste of brains.
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