Joanna Baillie ( 10 of 14 )
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of read more
Sweet sleep be with us, one and all!
And if upon its stillness fall
The visions of a busy brain,
We'll have our pleasure o'er again,
To warm the heart, to charm the sight,
Gay dreams to all! good night, good night.
The brave man is not he who feels no fear. For that were stupid and irrational. But he, whose noble read more
The brave man is not he who feels no fear. For that were stupid and irrational. But he, whose noble soul its fears subdues, and bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
The fears of one class of men are not the measure of the rights
of another.
The fears of one class of men are not the measure of the rights
of another.
Words of affection, howsoe'er express'd,
The latest spoken still are deem'd the best.
Words of affection, howsoe'er express'd,
The latest spoken still are deem'd the best.
A willing heart adds feather to the heel
And makes the clown a winged Mercury.
A willing heart adds feather to the heel
And makes the clown a winged Mercury.
The brave man is not he who feels no fear, For that were stupid and irrational; But he, whose noble read more
The brave man is not he who feels no fear, For that were stupid and irrational; But he, whose noble soul its fears subdues, And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
The brave man is not he who feels no fear,
For that were stupid and irrational;
But read more
The brave man is not he who feels no fear,
For that were stupid and irrational;
But he, whose noble soul its fear subdues,
And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.
But woman's grief is like a summer storm,
Short as it violent is.
But woman's grief is like a summer storm,
Short as it violent is.
The hushed winds wail with feeble moan
Like infant charity.
The hushed winds wail with feeble moan
Like infant charity.
Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world
But those who slide along the grassy sod,
read more
Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world
But those who slide along the grassy sod,
And sting the luckless foot that presses them?
There are who in the path of social life
Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun,
And sting the soul.
