Perverts the Prophets and purloins the Psalms. English Bards and Scotch Reviewers. Line 326.

O Amos Cottle! Phoebus! what a name!

Line 399.

So the struck eagle, stretched upon the plain,
No more through rolling clouds to soar again,
Viewed his own feather on the fatal dart,
And winged the shaft that quivered in his heart.1

Line 826.

Yet truth will sometimes lend her noblest fires,
And decorate the verse herself inspires:
This fact, in Virtue's name, let Crabbe attest:
Though Nature's sternest painter, yet the best.
Line 839.

Maid of Athens, ere we part,
Give, oh, give me back my heart!

Maid of Athens.

Had sighed to many though he loved but one. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. St. 5.

If ancient tales say true, nor wrong these holy

men.

Canto i. St. 7.

1 That eagle's fate and mine are one,

Which on the shaft that made him die

Espied a feather of his own,

Wherewith he wont to soar so high.

Waller, To a Lady singing a Song of his Composing.

Like a young eagle, who has lent his plume
To fledge the shaft by which he meets his doom;
See their own feathers pluck'd, to wing the dart
Which rank corruption destines for their heart.
T. Moore, Corruption.

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught by glare, And Mammon wins his way where Seraphs might despair.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto i. St. 9.

O Christ! it is a goodly sight to see

What Heaven hath done for this delicious land. Canto i. St. 15.

In hope to merit Heaven by making earth a Hell.

Canto i. St. 20.

By Heaven! it is a splendid sight to see
For one who hath no friend, no brother there.
Canto i. St. 40.

Still from the fount of Joy's delicious springs
Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom

2 "War even to the knife," was the reply of Palafox, the governor of Saragoza, when summoned to surrender by the French, who besieged that city in 1808.

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things

that were.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. St. 2.

A school-boy's tale, the wonder of an hour!

Canto ii. St. 2.

Dim with the mist of years, gray flits the shade of power. Canto ii. St. 2.

The dome of Thought, the palace of the Soul.1

Canto ii. St. 6.

Ah! happy years! once more who would not be

a boy?

Canto ii. St. 23.

None are so desolate but something dear,

Dearer than self, possesses or possess'd.

Canto ii. St. 24.

But midst the crowd, the hum, the shock of men,
To hear, to see, to feel, and to possess,

And roam along, the world's tired denizen,
With none who bless us, none whom we can bless.

Canto ii. St. 26.

Cooped in their winged sea-girt citadel.

Canto ii. St. 28.

Fair Greece! sad relic of departed worth! Immortal, though no more; though fallen, great!

Canto ii. St. 73.

Hereditary bondsmen! know ye not,

Who would be free, themselves must strike the

blow?

Canto ii. St. 76.

1 And keeps that palace of the soul. - Waller, Of Tea.

A thousand years scarce serve to form a state; An hour may lay it in the dust.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto ii. St. 84.

Land of lost gods and godlike men.

Canto ii. St. 85.

Where'er we tread, 't is haunted, holy ground. Canto ii. St. 88.

Age shakes Athena's tower, but spares gray

Marathon.

Canto ii. St. 88.

Ada! sole daughter of my house and heart.

Canto iii. St. I.

Once more upon the waters! yet once more! And the waves bound beneath me as a steed That knows his rider.

Welcome to the roar!

Canto iii. St. 2.

I am as a weed,

Flung from the rock, on Ocean's foam, to sail Where'er the surge may sweep, the tempest's

breath prevail.

Canto iii. St. 2.

Years steal

Fire from the mind as vigour from the limb; And life's enchanted cup but sparkles near the

brim.

Canto iii. St. 8.

There was a sound of revelry by night,
And Belgium's Capital had gathered then
Her Beauty and her Chivalry, and bright
The lamps shone o'er fair women and brave men ;
A thousand hearts beat happily; and when

Music arose with its voluptuous swell,

Soft eyes looked love to eyes which spake again, And all went merry as a marriage-bell.

Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Canto iii. St. 21.

On with the dance! let joy be unconfined.

Canto iii. St. 22.

Canto iii. St. 25.

And there was mounting in hot haste.

Or whispering, with white lips-"The foe!

They come! They come !"

And thus the heart will break, yet brokenly live

on.

Canto iii. St. 32.

Canto iii. St. 42.

But quiet to quick bosoms is a hell.

He who surpasses or subdues mankind,
Must look down on the hate of those below.

All tenantless, save to the crannying wind.

Canto iii. St. 45.

Canto iii. St. 47.

The castled crag of Drachenfels

Frowns o'er the wide and winding Rhine.

Canto iii. St. 55.

He had kept

The whiteness of his soul, and thus men o'er him

wept.

Canto iii. St. 57.