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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Take
Servitude
Dwell
Reign
Slaves
Tyrants
Slave
Cower
Virtue
Yoke
Cannot
Tyrant

More quotes by William C. Bryant

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When April winds Grew soft, the maple burst into a flush Of scarlet flowers. The tulip tree, high up, Opened in airs of June her multitude Of golden chalices to humming-birds And silken-wing'd insects of the sky.
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A sculptor wields The chisel, and the stricken marble grows To beauty.
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Autumn, the year's last, loveliest smile.
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War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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Hark to that shrill, sudden shout, The cry of an applauding multitude, Swayed by some loud-voiced orator who wields The living mass as if he were its soul!
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Remorse is virtue's root its fair increase is fruits of innocence and blessedness.
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Ah! never shall the land forget.
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That make the meadows green and, poured round all, Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man.
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A stable, changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep.
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The melancholy days are come, the saddest of the year, Of wailing winds, and naked woods and meadows brown and sear.
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Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave -
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.
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Still sweet with blossoms is the year's fresh prime.
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Lay down the axe fling by the spade Leave in its track the toiling plough The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.
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I hear the howl of the wind that brings The long drear storm on its heavy wings.
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